


Mirrors in the Smoke

by JudeAraya



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 2012-2017, Angst, Awesome Wanda Maximoff, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, CBT, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Demisexual Steve Rogers, Dissociation, Dom/sub Undertones, EMDR, Falling In Love, First Time, Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychotherapy, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Stucky Big Bang 2017, Therapy, Virgin Steve Rogers, and issues he hasn't addressed, as in, bucky does all the therapies, reference to food triggers, reference to past torture, reference to period typical homophobia, self discovery (steve), starts just post CWTWS, steve has repressed feelings, they don't realize that's what they are doing, two old dudes finally falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-14 21:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 43,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11791752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JudeAraya/pseuds/JudeAraya
Summary: Steve told Sam and Natasha once that even when he had nothing, he’d had Bucky. The truth, he realized, was that without Peggy and Bucky, without the world he knew, Steve couldn’t even beSteve. But he could be Captain America. Steve’s been a stranger in a new world for a long time and Captain America was his best secret keeper.Having Bucky back should be the thing that puts him back together, right? Finding him, being with him – it’s everything Steve’s pinned his hopes on. It’s a fucker of a truth now, to find this out – that Steve needed Captain America as much as anything else.Only, Steve gave him up. Steve is no longer Captain America and he is definitely not well.~*~My contribution to the 2017 Stucky Big Bang. Spans from 2012 (post Steve coming out of the ice) to past Civil War.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to [flowerfan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerfan/pseuds/flowerfan) for being an awesome beta  
> and to [MrBarnesIfYaNasty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MrBarnesIfYaNasty/pseuds/MrBarnesIfYaNasty) for doing a sensitivity read for me. 
> 
> All the love and thanks to my wonderful artist [ Elendrien](https://elendrien.tumblr.com/) , whose lovely art will appear in a future chapter!
> 
> Also, should you want, I am on tumblr !!

 

Prologue

2012

The lighting is dim throughout the cabin; a combination of low wattage bulbs and dark wood paneling. Steve likes it. Sometimes, in the light, he feels flayed open.

_Seventy years of being unseen._

Steve shakes his head. The fluorescent lights in the bathroom flicker on when he flips the switches -- the sound of a vent fan startles him still when it whirs to life. He turns on the shower and strips, folding his clothes carefully and putting them on the toilet lid. He takes the toothbrush into the shower with him. He resists the urge to turn off the lights. Seventy years of dark will do that to a man, he supposes. Make him skittish.

The water must have been hot, Steve thinks later, blinking at the mirror. He’s got a towel on -- a big, bright blue one, a luxury to him -- and his toothbrush in hand, but when he wipes the condensation of the mirror, his skin reflects its evidence: it’s the kind of bright red that will fade soon but only comes from intense heat. It takes a lot to draw that kind of flush from his body. Steve touches his own arm, presses the pad of a finger against it. Draws it way and watches a stark white circle fade to pink. It feels like nothing


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One: 2014

_2014_

The clouds skittering across the sky are casting shadow and light unpredictably; whenever they pass and the sunshine warms his face, Steve finds himself smiling. It’s a beautiful day.

_You gonna call me or we playing dead?_

Steve shakes his head at Sam’s choice of words and smiles. He pockets his phone and crosses the street. He’s been walking Brooklyn, looking in shop windows, examining real estate flyers tacked in them. Pretending. He doesn’t exactly like it in the Avengers compound, but he doesn’t hate it either. It’s big enough that he has his own space but that when he needs noise to fill the room around him, clutter out his own too-loud mind, it’s perfect.

It’s more familiar than Brooklyn though; a thought that tightens through Steve’s chest.

His phone rings again, the tune tinny and startling from his pocket. Sam keeps changing his ringtone. Right now it’s set to _uplift_ ; Sam enjoys the irony and Steve just lets him get his way. All the sounds phones make nowadays are horrible and aggravating.

“Miss me that much? Can’t even wait a few minutes for a guy to respond?”

“Every day,” Sam says; the line crackles, but not enough to dispel the wry humor. “So, good to know you’re still around.”

“Sam, it really hasn’t -”

“Oh I know, I know. Access to phones and internet have set up false expectations for how often humans are meant to communicate-”

“Sam,” Steve tries not to laugh, and fails.

“Naw, I’m just messin’ around. Listen, Tallinn’s a bust, no sign of Barnes here. I found one of Hydra’s holes, but everything was taken or smashed to bits.”

_Shoot_. Steve looks up and blinks into the sun. The clouds have skirted off to the west. “Well, we knew it was a long shot.”

“They’re all long shots, if you ask me,” Sam says.

“Let me guess, you’re going to ask again if I’m sure I want to keep doing this?”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

“Listen Sam, I know I’ve asked a lot of you-”

“-actually, man, I volunteer-”

“-but you don’t have to do this. No hard feelings if you don’t.”

“Like hell no hard feelings. My feelings are gonna be pretty fucking hurt if you take me off of this now.”

Steve laughs because he knows he’s supposed to. Sam likes to swear sometimes to get a rise out of him. It’s all a part of the Wholesome Captain America shtick they love to pull.

“All right, all right, good thin-”

The squeal of tires cuts him off, and then there’s a crack, the screech of rending metal and the raining ping of glass. Steve drops his phone and ducks into the nearest doorway.

_Think_ , he orders himself. He’s heard this noise before, countless times. Often it’s his own body being thrown into something made of metal. _I don’t have my shield. What do I do?_

A shout reverberates across the street.

_Think, Cap._ His heart pounds over his ears. He remembers the screech of the Leviathan ringing in his ears; shouts of onlookers. He must clear civilians from the street.

Only he can’t move.

He can’t move and he can’t breathe and suddenly he’s back _there_. The battle of New York.

_He’s picking himself off of a broken car, the impact singing a gleeful, terrible chorus of pain as he sucks in a screaming breath and extracts himself off of the mangled frame. It’s suddenly quiet. Inside the bank, the roar of screams and breaking glass reverberating off of the ceilings had deafened him. He rolls off of the car he’s landed on and onto the street. The glass crunches under his boots; he knows only because he can feel it. When he looks around, he sees the Chitauri, the undulating wave of the Leviathan as they crush a building. Streaming out of the wormhole in the sky. How the rocks pummel people running; a woman is crushed. He closes his eyes and opens them, takes it in, but there’s no sound. He moves without purpose, shield at the ready, but can’t feel his body._

Steve sucks in a breath; the light is different. This is not _that_ battle. _Help them Captain_. He shakes his head; in the silence, it’s almost like a dance. _It’s your duty._ Time slows. His heart beats painfully. There’s nothing to do. Nothing he can. No-

Steve startles with a yelp, barely missing hitting the man next to him. He gasps again and blinks; too-bright sunlight floods his eyes. To his right, he sees he’s in the doorway to a barbershop, and to his left, two cars that have had a collision. He’s weak, trembling.  There are no Chitauri. No one coming for him.

“You alright?”

Steve checks but the man isn’t wearing a nametag. He has a goatee and horn-rimmed glasses on. A ripped black shirt and jeans. Steve remembers sitting with Bucky, mending their clothes. Doing their best to make what was worn down look as new as possible. People break their clothes on purpose nowadays.

“Yeah,” Steve says when he can. The man is giving him a strange look as Steve comes back into himself fully. His hand is on Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s body throbs with his heartbeat, adrenaline pumping. “Yeah I’m fine. Thank you.” He holds his hand out. “Steve.”

“Joe.” They shake and Steve hopes the tremors in his fingers aren’t too obvious.

“Well it looks like someone already called 911,” Joe says. An ambulance and two police cars have pulled up. Both drivers are up and talking to the cops, so Steve can only assume the paramedics are just out to clear them. Steve looks down; his phone screen is clearly shattered. Damnit.

“You got one of those clear screen protectors?” Joe asks “I used one to hold my screen together until I could get it fixed once.”

Shards of protective glass fall out when Steve picks it up. “No, I think this one is a loss.” Steve shakes it out until all pieces of the screen come loose, and then pockets the phone.

“Bummer. Well,” Joe jerks his head toward the shop – he probably has customers right now. “Good luck.”

“Yeah, you too,” Steve says; he’s operating on auto-pilot right now. It catches up to him 45 seconds later as he walks toward the subway, that his words made no sense. He shakes his head. He’ll have to call Sam when he gets back to the complex. And get a new phone. He goes through them so fast – they all do – that Tony keeps a stock of them.

He takes the subway too far, only coming to attention when they get to 51st. Steve exits, body like lead. He finds himself turned around in the station, and it takes him what feels like hours to get where he needs to go.

The lights are off in his room. He closes the blinds to block out the sunset light spilling through and lays down, fully clothed, on his bed. More than anything he wants sleep, but he knows this tiredness. Knows its taste and its power over him, and how no matter what, it won’t let him sleep. He rolls onto his side as pictures come to him in flashes. Bodies under rubble. Tony unresponsive after the fall, in which the seconds before Hulk roared him back awake felt like years. Following them blindly, too exhausted and confused to eat. Steve’s never had shawarma since. Tony insists he loved it, but Steve has no idea what it tasted like, only that the thought of it makes him feel like his mouth is full of ashes, the dust of a broken city all over him, under his skin, lining his bones.

An hour passes before Steve rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom. He’ll lose himself in the pounding water, in the quiet heat of the shower. The water is warming as he strips. Stubble lines his face and he debates shaving. In the mirror, a strong body is reflected. Often, as now, Steve experiences a strange sensation, like his body isn’t really _his_. This body is 96 years old, but age and time haven’t erased twenty one of years of _before_. Of when Steve was just Steve. Before his body was a tool. Before _he_ was a tool; used in service of other’s agendas. He leaves the razor where it is, turns off the lights, and steps into the shower.

~*~

Steve bypasses the common areas and goes straight down to the gym. There, he erases the effects of the shower. He can take another one later. There’s something vibrating inside him, something that pushes under his skin despite his best efforts to quell it. A punching bag – several in fact – will do.

And they do. He goes and goes; past soreness, past split knuckles, until he’s drenched with sweat and breathing hard and is blessedly numb. He hangs the fourth bag and holds it to steady its swing. Remembers Bucky doing this for him. Bucky’s hands on his, showing him combinations, how to fold his fingers. Now, finally, the buzzing in his body, the irritation and wrongness are gone. Instead there’s the lonely echoes of his grunts and the smack of his fists in the cavernous space of the gym. There’s his dumb body, untouched by anything that might resemble affection or familiarity, in too long. Only Nat and Sam hug him or touch him, but he rarely sees them and when he does, they’re generally in a combat zone.

During the war, on missions, he and the Howlies used to sleep curled up together for warmth. When Steve was just Steve, maybe Bucky would have slept at his back. But Bucky was bigger then. No matter how Bucky tried to hide how messed up he was after the rescue, Steve could see how hard he was fighting to hold himself together. He didn’t speak of being tortured, but it was clear he was haunted. So Steve would sleep at his back, curling around Bucky to keep him sheltered from the frigid wind.

Now Steve sleeps utterly alone, kept company only by the memory of camaraderie or dreams he had of a future with Peggy.


	3. Chapter 3

The motel is a dump. Like the last, and the one before it. They don’t draw attention in these places.

“I’m telling you,” Sam says. He’s stripping his own bed. “Small things make a difference.”

Steve isn’t picky about his sheets: after all he’s slept on worse. Sam has been pestering him about self-care in small moments ever since their first trip together searching for Bucky. Whenever Sam can when they travel he packs his own sheets. It’s an extravagance, but when they know they’ll be somewhere for more than a few days, Steve can hardly begrudge Sam the choice to pack whatever he wants.

Steve checks the room, going over the window and door frames, checking the lightbulbs, in the drawers – everywhere he can think a bug might be. Sam watches patiently, flipping channels on the television. Sam doesn’t speak German – he rarely speaks any of the languages where they go – but he likes the drone of the television.  Steve speaks enough to know that he’s landed on a game show and smirks when his back is turned to Sam. It’ll make a fun option for their ritual “badly dubbed TV show” game.

The first few times they shared a room, Sam had helped Steve check for bugs; he tried to gently hint that it seemed slightly paranoid, considering they were following leads with almost no fore-planning. Steve smiled and told him not to worry about helping – that he just needed to do it for some peace of mind. He doesn’t mind letting Sam think he’s getting through to Steve. Maybe he is paranoid, but he doesn’t think it’s a problem. Steve doesn’t trust anything anymore.

Well other than Sam. And Nat, mostly.

Sam humors him with light chatter and jokes while he makes his rounds. When Steve lies down, finally, Sam gets quiet. Steve breathes into the silence. With the room cleared, he feels less tightly wound. With Sam, he feels less tightly wound.

“Tell me a story,” Sam says. Steve rolls over.

“You sure?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “No, I asked for my health.” He mutes the television.

“What kind of story?” Sometimes Sam wants to hear about Bucky. About growing up with him.  Steve thinks hearing his stories helps Sam to keep chasing Bucky’s ghost around the world. Bucky means nothing good to Sam other than the shape of him as a memory construct offered by Steve. Sometimes, Sam just wants to hear about Steve’s life. Those memories make him feel uncomfortably seen, as if those stories are sacred, stored someplace very private. Sam’s astute as hell; Steve gets that. He’s also quite a bit like his Mama, whom Steve had the terrifying pleasure of finally meeting a few months ago. They both exude a kind of self-assured knowledge that sometimes you gotta take your medicine to feel better. Sam thinks talking is medicine. Steve isn’t sure what he thinks. Sometimes it leaves him lonelier. Sometimes he thinks it’s the only thing forging a human bond in this new life.

“Tell me about Peggy,” Sam mutes the TV. Steve grunts, the folds up the pillows behind his head. There are water stains on the ceiling. It’s cracked. Sam’s only asked about Peggy once; Steve had just seen her the day before. It had been a bad day, she’d not even recognized him. It wasn’t a good time. Steve had barely held it together.

“Did I ever tell you about the fondue?”

“No. Is this gonna be one of _those_ stories?”

Steve raises his eyebrow, unimpressed. Sam’s grin is wicked and playful. “I just mean a delicious one. _Fondue_ , man.”

“I’ve never actually had fondue.” Steve says. He means the food of course; the fact that it means more than that doesn’t need to be advertised.

“We’ll do it sometime. Now, go on. Tell me.”

By the time he’s finished the story, Sam is in stitches. “This woman sounds amazing, I can’t believe she shot at you.”

“She was something else,” Steve says. Peggy feels so close right now. Peggy who is losing these memories. Losing herself and him. Steve has enough memories he’s carrying alone. It’s nice to know that others will know what a fierce firebrand she was. “She was it for me. I mean, I wanted her to be...I was so. She was something else. But that day, I knew it.”

“Like... _it_ it?”

“Yeah.”

“But you mean then, right?”

“What do you mean?” He does, but playing dumb never hurt.

“Man, don’t play me like that.” Okay, so playing dumb won’t work. “I know you’ve been on dates. Nat told me you’ve been kissing and not telling.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t know about it would you?” Steve shoots him a smug smile.

“Smart-ass,” Sam throws one of his pillows at Steve’s head. It lands on Steve’s face – it also smells delicious. Steve tucks it into his mound of pillows.

“Hey!”

“Yeah no, you’re definitely onto something here with this sheet business.”

“Fuck you,” Sam laughs. “And gimme my pillow back. I didn’t haul my Downy fresh pillowcase to Leipzig for you to get your Heroically Patriotic sweat all over it.”

“Sure you did. You could sell this on eBay. Buy yourself even more of that Downy-whatever.” Steve settles down even more enjoying Sam’s laughter.

“Fine. But there’s a price. Kiss and tell my friend.”

“You know, back in the day—“

“No way, uh-uh. From what I understand, Bucky was a ladies man, right? I bet _anything_ he kissed and told.”

Steve flushes. Bucky was a gentleman – to the extent that he only ever told Steve stories but no one else. And _boy_ , did he tell them. In detail. Steve was never sure if it was because he enjoyed flustering Steve or if it was a part of his quest to get Steve out there and to find him a girl. Perhaps both. For a while, it seemed like Steve lived on Bucky’s stories. All the girls that Bucky tried to fix him up with – Steve knew they were disappointed with what they got. Bucky talked him up to each girl but Steve was a pragmatist. It was always a lost cause. And sure, maybe a time or two it wouldn’t have been. There were a few fast girls. But Steve hadn’t felt anything. He could never explain it either, not to Bucky then and he definitely can’t now. Bucky had yelled at Steve about the girls once, that Steve was determined to fail. Steve had wondered, time to time if something was wrong about him that he couldn’t seem to muster a spark. He doesn’t so much anymore; perhaps because everything is wrong in this world, upside down. Not feeling anything is the status-quo. First year post thaw, it was how he kept himself breathing and moving.

“What about hot neighbor?” Sam prompts.

“You mean, Sharon?” Steve asks. “The one who was secretly a SHIELD agent?”

“No need to get salty,” Sam says. Steve’s never known anyone to be so even-keel as Sam can be. Steve projects it, but that’s all it is. Steve is a mirage. Sam is genuine. Sure, he’s tried a few dates. He’s kissed some beautiful women. But he hasn’t felt anything. “She turned out to be a good-guy agent,” Sam points out.

“Yeah.” Steve wants to roll over now, go to sleep, not have to explain himself. “I asked her to coffee. She said maybe. Then the world fell apart. I have more important missions right now.”

“Man, you are wound so tight, if you just-”

“ _Sam_.” Steve laces it with warning. Kindness, but a clear message to please stop.

“Alright, alright.” Sam fiddles with the remote. “But, Peggy. Good?”

Steve knows Sam isn’t being crass. “Yeah,” he says, and then does roll over, hands tucked under his pillow. He lets Sam assume whatever he will. It’s easier like that.

~*~

Steve lies awake for hours after Sam falls asleep. Peggy, still lovely, was such a force; a stunning, passionate woman. Shaped beautifully. Steve cannot understand how the world has trained women out of such beautiful bodies. So many times Steve had ached to put his hands on Peggy’s waist, to run them over her full hips. To cup her breasts and feel their weight. Wondered what all those curves would feel like, on him.

Maybe he shouldn’t think of her like this, with Sam in the room. But Peggy is just one of many ghosts, and like all, she haunts him. Sometimes it’s lovely. Steve is so lonely sometimes. Reliving her kiss, the only one, the one he waited much too long for; imagining what might have come after, is a small thing to ask for.

Often, this is how he comes, with Peggy on his mind. When it doesn’t hurt. When it doesn’t leave him so raw he can’t breathe, when he has to turn off all of the lights and try to erase himself, to take himself out of this body and mind. Fill himself with silence and emptiness.

When he remembers Peggy though, he feels plenty.

Tonight he knows he shouldn’t. Whenever he tries to steer his thoughts from her, however, they go right back to that kiss. Everything had happened so fast after that – the fight on the Valkyrie, his choice – that it wasn’t until he came back out of the ice that he had any time to linger in it, in how lovely her lips were.

But by then he was alone.

Steve fists his hands under his pillow and tries to force calm breaths. The memory of cold, of impact followed by the inexorable slide into ice, the helplessness of it, comes in waves. The ice had been like knives. He’d been awake for it all. Remembered Bucky and Peggy. He froze slowly and thought of all the chances he’d squandered, of a life unlived.

It’s a funny thing that Steve’s never reconciled. Pre-serum, Steve had been resigned to a short life. Bucky used to tell him that’s what made him so scrappy. Steve threw himself into things with a recklessness born of this understanding. Post-serum, Steve was a scrappy as ever, more rash, secure in the new longevity of his life. A little high on that, perhaps, in battle. After Bucky though...sitting in a bombed out bar where he’d once watched Bucky fail to catch Peggy’s attention, silently a little smug and thrilled to be the object of Peggy’s attention: there he’d realized it didn’t matter how reckless or thoughtless he was with his own body. Without Bucky, Steve was half dead anyway. He and Bucky – well, they’d been _Steve and Bucky_ most of his life.

Steve knows that Sam questions his decision to put the Valkyrie down in the ice, and what motivated it. He’d love to be able to set Sam straight. But he can’t. Steve still can’t untangle his thoughts about it. All he wants is a sort of peace from the past, nights when his body isn’t frozen, when his breaths don’t come short with the memory of ice. Of Bucky falling. Of Peggy’s picture in a compass case at the end.

Sam rolls over; Steve can’t tell if he’s still asleep. He turns his face into the pillow to disguise his ragged, panicked breaths, and wills himself to sleep.

 In the end he’s only gotten a few hours of restless sleep, dreams of ice chasing him even there. He tells Sam that he slept like a baby, jokes that it must have been his pillow case. He can tell Sam doesn’t buy it, but he’s friend enough not to call him out.


	4. Chapter 4

They don’t find Bucky, and their leads go ice cold for a while. Fortunately, in their search, he and Sam come across a cadre of information on underground Hydra bases; it keeps him more than busy enough to keep his mind occupied. Steve throws himself so gleefully into battle that Clint jokes he needs to leave some fight behind for everyone else.

“Yeah,” Nat says, eyes bright, “leave some bad guys for the rest of us. I’m feeling a little Hydra bloodthirsty myself.”

“You’re just trying to make up for choosing the wrong organization to go straight with,” Clint jokes. Tony _ooohs_. Natasha’s glare is damn fierce – Clint is perhaps the only person who could get away with a joke like that. Steve ignores them for a moment, focused instead on washing the blood from his face. Their bickering follows him into the bathroom; it’s nice, not to be alone after battle. He washes the blood from his chin and watches the cut on his lip heal.

“Cap,” Tony says. “ _Cap_.”

“Oh,” Steve turns away. “Sorry do you need the bathroom?”

“Uh no. But we need you. For debrief. There’s only so long someone can stare at themselves in the mirror before people start talking. I would know. Been there, done that.”

“What?”

“It’s been half an hour buddy. We know you’re pretty. No need to rub it in.”

“No, that’s-” Steve blinks. “Have I really been in here-?”

Tony cocks his head to the side and considers him. “You feeling okay Cap?”

“Uh, yeah,” Steve brushes past him – or tries. Clumsy and off balance, he knocks into Tony. Massages his forehead, tries to clear his mind. Debrief. Right. Only everything is muddy.

“Steve,” Nat says. She’s right in front of him then. Quiet, eyes direct. “We don’t have to do this right now. You took some hard hits. You need a break.”

Captain American doesn’t need breaks. Because he bounces back. He forces a smile, focuses on her, then the room. They’re in one of the tactical rooms in the compound. _When did they get off of the Quinjet?_ He knows better to ask, he’s already pulled enough of their focus.

“Alight Cap, lead the way,” Clint says.

_To what?_

“Come on,” Tony touches his elbow lightly but doesn’t do anything dumb like hold it. “We’re in charge of this ragtag bunch, remember?”

 _Fuck_. Steve winces, glad he didn’t say that out loud. He touches his head and takes a breath. He’s the leader. Right. Excusing himself to go throw up isn’t going to help anyone.

~*~

Later, in a dark room alone, Steve gathers himself. He feels silly and more than a little weak right now. When the door opens he startles, even though it’s not loud.

“At ease soldier,” Tony says. Steve leans back in his chair. Everyone had gone off to eat; he thought he’d been alone for a while.

“No dim sum for you?”

“I wasn’t feeling it.” Tony wanders the room, as always, too restless to sit. “You ever need alone time, Cap? You know, gather yourself or calm down or , I don’t know, something?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Feeling gathered yet?”

Steve sighs. “Is there a point to this?” As a rule, Steve tries not to be rude, but Tony is a bit much for him right now, and a little rudeness doesn’t ruffle his feathers.

“I don’t know, maybe I just care? Maybe I’m checking in. As a friend, you know?” Tony lays a look on him, hard and direct. The leather of the seat squeaks when Steve shifts.

“Look, I’ll be straight with you. You weren’t okay today. You were far from it. Maybe some of the others didn’t notice. But...when you’ve been through it, I guess you can see it.”

Tony’s eyes are too direct, more direct than usual. His stillness is unsettling. “Tony...” Steve digs the nails of his right hand into the fabric of his pants under the table. “I’m sorry to hear if you’ve been having a hard time. We...battle is hard. You see a lot. But I’m fine.”

“You sure buddy? You’ve seen a lot of battle. More than most of us.”

Steve’s smile is like plastic, stretching his lips uncomfortably. He can feel his pulse elevate a little. “It’ll pass.” It’s the closest he’s come to verbalizing it. Steve’s not dumb. He’s seen shell shock before plenty of times. It’ll pass.

Tony pins him with his gaze. “Well. I’m here. Plenty are. Resources everywhere, from what I’m told.”

Steve takes this to mean Tony himself isn’t taking advantage of whatever resources there are. He can hardly judge, though he can worry.

“I’ll say the same to you then.”

Tony hums, then turns to leave. Steve stops himself from calling out; the dark of the room is lonely. He doesn’t want to talk, to be peeled open by that look or the words or the pressure always in his chest, pulled to the surface by that knowingness Tony’s exhibited. But, also, he doesn’t want to be alone.

Still he is. Steve knows the wreckage of loss, losing everything and everyone. The terrible fear of it weighs on him constantly. Knowing, every time they go into battle, that he could lose any of the Avengers, keeps him at a distance. Loneliness he’s used to. Grief he could do without. Lead boned and slack muscled, Steve makes his way to his rooms. On his nightstand is his little notebook. By now, he’s crossed off almost all of the initial things he’d written down, but not the most recent. _Trouble Man_ was crossed off, then erased and written again. Listening when he was in the hospital, in and out of consciousness, barely aware of anything but his own pain, of the massive grief and shock, doesn’t really count. Steve wishes Sam were here, but Sam is with his family right now, taking a break from world travel and the wear of battle. Steve hardly blames him; if he had family to go home too, perhaps he’d do the same. Take a long break from all of this.

Steve showers quickly, changes into the softest, most comfortable clothes he owns. Eats leftover spaghetti cold standing in front of the open fridge. Forks pasta into his mouth mechanically. Unfocused, reliving moments from the fight; the rush of adrenaline he gets from it. It’s a high, he thinks. It transports him, narrows the world to a singular focus: winning. It’s only now, sometimes – or often lately – that he crashes so hard when he comes down. Can’t shake it off. Used to be he came down with the Howlies, all of them together, the camaraderie of battle bonds easing them each back into the now.

Steve knows he could have that, dim sum and more. He’s the one that asked Nat for friendship and he meant it. Right now, though, all Steve can think of is the crushing weight losing her would be, if he let her in more. The sink water is cold, prickling his skin when he washes the container. The cushions of his couch sink under his weight, and when he turns on the music, Steve closes his eyes and lets himself be transported somewhere else. Thinks of the history he’s caught up on between 1945 and 2014. This record is Sam’s story; the story of how Sam sees and understands that history. It’s nice, to lose himself in that.

After a bit he opens his phone.

_Am lis_ _tening to_ _Trouble Man_ _again_

It takes a bit to get a response

_And????_

Steve types several replies and deletes them. About the heaviness in his heart. About the hot and cold sweats of his body as he’s jarred by the slightest movement, the way his body kicks into overdrive. About how grateful he is for Sam.

 _Thank you,_ he settles on.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two: 2016, Wakanda

**_2016_ ** ************

Bucky is not who he was. Steve knows this: he knew this going in.

“Still, it’s _different_.”

Steve is also aware that talking to himself, even if he’s mentally addressing it to Sam, is strange. But he doesn’t have Sam or Nat or even Wanda to talk to – any of the Avengers right now – and he doesn’t know T’Challa at all. He’s grateful for the sanctuary T’Challa has provided, but it’s isolating. Having Bucky back is everything he’s worked for for years. Well, that, and destroying Hydra.

“I think you’d know better what to do here Sam. He’s got so much...he’s here sometimes and not others.”

Bucky isn’t violent, as Steve and Sam feared he might be. He’s almost...docile. Quieter than old Bucky for sure. Half the time he and Steve circle each other like cats; silent assessment, ears back....and in Steve’s case, ready to turn at the drop of a hat at the slightest indication of affection, camaraderie, or laughter.

“And it kills me, Sam. I’m sure there are a million things you could do or tell me to do to help him....he’s got so much going on in his brain, I’m sure. All that stuff Hydra put in there. The-” his voice breaks but he just clears it and goes on, “the torture.”

“I didn’t think I’d be saying this, so soon, but I wish Tony was here, he can’t even walk normally without his arm right now. T’Challa said they could make a new one, but I’m sure Tony could-”

“Tony could what?”

Steve startles; rolls off the bed into a defensive crouch and reaches for a shield that’s no longer there.

“It’s just me,” Bucky has his hand up, lose and easy, harmless.

“Shit.” Steve whispers it under his breath.

“Language,” Bucky says and that’s it, Steve can’t hold the laughter in – couldn’t if he wanted to. Once it’s out, he can’t seem to stop either, not even when he’s got his face pressed into the covers of the bed he’s kneeling by, not even when his whole body is tense and sore with it.

“Uh, this isn’t gonna be one of those things, is it?” Bucky asks from the side of the bed.

“What things?” Steve gasps, struggling to get ahold of himself.

“Like, when you have a hysterical laughing fit and then start crying or something?”

“Buck, that only happens in movies,” Steve says, and sits back on his haunches, wiping his eyes.

Bucky rolls his eyes, “I know. I’ve seen a few in the last 70 years.”

This stops Steve. He stares at Bucky, who hasn’t aged in 70 years and yet somehow looks older than he did, even at his worst during the war. After Zola, when Bucky couldn’t sleep but for shaking and had to muffle his cries into his arm at night. It’s in the hair, the scruff of an infrequently shaved cheek. In his eyes, which are never truly alive, even when Bucky’s making a concerted effort. Which he only seems to do around Steve.

What movies has Bucky seen? Where has he been? Steve’s seen the files: Bucky didn’t have free reign: hardly any at all. There are countless things Steve doesn’t know, isn’t sure if he has the right to ask, has no idea if he even should because who knows what will trigger Bucky and suddenly, crushingly, Steve feels more lonely than he ever has, not in his entire life, not even when he woke up from the ice.

And that’s when, to both his and Bucky’s shock, he begins to tear up.

“Oh, uh...” Bucky moves toward him and Steve shakes his head and presses his face back into the bed. He works to push it back down, but it feels huge; like he’s been grieving for years but the wrong way. He must have been. This feeling is overwhelming, too big for his already big body. Stronger than he, more insistent. He shakes his head again, but feels the bed dip and the lightest touch – Bucky’s hand on his back maybe.

Steve bites his lip so hard he tastes blood at the touch. Because it will break him, he thinks. He wants to hit something – has the sudden, violent urge to haul off and hit Bucky square in the mouth, because everything has honed down to this one point, Bucky’s hand on his back and the years of being untouched as _Steve_. Years of no one really knowing little Stevie Rogers, that sickly kid who never knew when to walk away from a fight.

For years, Steve wasn’t even sure if he remembered being that boy. He told Nat once, when she followed him, that he went to the Smithsonian exhibit from time to time to visit Bucky and the Howlies. Which was true. But also, he went to remind himself. It was, after all, the closest he could get to his own history. During the war Steve often felt like a stranger in his own body, sure. But that was okay: first, there was the high of being pain free, of years of fight he could suddenly now unleash without worry. And he was a man in his own time. Before he found Bucky, he had Peggy, who seemed to like him just fine in the older model too.

Steve knows that if Bucky breathes so much as even one comforting word he’ll break. But he doesn’t. Just sits with him. Doesn’t even move his hand while Steve fists his hands until his nails break his skin and uses that sharp pain to pull himself together and force it all back in, one shuddering breath at a time until finally, he’s still.

And then....he doesn’t move. His nose is sniffly and he needs a handkerchief; his eyes must be red. He’d know if he opened them, but there’s no way in hell he is gonna sit up and face his own mortification right now. Steve tilts his head to breathe a little better and wonders how long it’ll be before Bucky gets tired of sitting there.

“Steve. I can sit for hours,” Bucky says. Steve’s gut cramps; Bucky can’t remember half of their lives, but apparently remembers this, how hard Steve would work to hide his own sense of weakness. “I was a sniper. I was a trained assassin.”

“Ugh don’t remind me,” Steve says before he can help himself. Bucky’s fingers twitch a little and the bed shakes infinitesimally. Laughter maybe? Steve can only hope so, because he’s got no filter right now and he’d rather not set Bucky off right now.

“Wanna talk about it?” Bucky asks. “I mean, to a real person, not the imaginary friend you were-”

“I was talking to Sam.”

“Who is...not here.” Bucky says patiently. Steve sits back and glares at him. He misses the warmth of Bucky’s hand instantly.

“I know that.” He scrubs his face. “Why are you smiling?”

“You looked up,” Bucky says. His smile is only half Bucky, an upturned corner of the mouth and a crinkle around his eyes.

Steve pushes at Bucky’s knee halfheartedly. “Don’t tempt me into more language.”

“So...?” Bucky’s eyebrows seem to be as expressive as they ever were. His hair is coming down; like Steve he’s wearing a tank top to combat the heat. His scars are a map of suffering Steve can’t help but want to read, obsessively. It’s a mark of how little autonomy Bucky’s had that it never seems to phase him, being stared at. Steve works his best not to, because if Bucky wants to share his story, it should be at his pace. Steve already knows too much, is an interloper in Bucky’s history, the weight of the files Nat gave him always on his mind.

“I don’t know Buck.” Steve sits back on the floor and doesn’t look back up. “I don’t know what the hell is even wrong with me.” _I have the thing I wanted most, and I’ve never felt worse._

Bucky is quiet for a long time. Steve looks at his hands. The crescent marks from his fingernails have already faded. He resists the urge to bring them back, as if focusing on one pain might take away another.

“Steve, you’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”

Steve laughs at the understatement, then bites down on his knuckles to stop, because he can feel that huge swell of hysteria too close to the surface. _Weeks?_ Hell he’s had a rough coupla years.

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Bucky says. “But you....you gave up some of your friends. Your shield. Your other friends are locked up. You’re stuck in a weird country with...me. I’d be a little-”

“What do you mean, _me_?” Steve does look up then. Bucky swallows, hard. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, like it’s not—“

“I know you’ve been looking for me, Steve. I know this is what you think you wanted. But that guy, the guy you remember? He’s not here half the time. I hardly remember him.”

“That’s okay,” Steve insists. Bucky exhales, sharp and fast.

“I know. I know it’s okay. But Steve, it’s okay to have a thing you’ve wanted and still feel fucked up over it. Over all this shit.”

“Weren’t you the one telling me to watch my language?” Steve tries, but the joke sounds flat to him. Bucky doesn’t know its history. Right now, he’s a stranger who knows too much. They both are. _How are you so much more together th_ _an me?_ Steve bites his tongue; he might be going crazy right now but he has some sense when to keep his mouth shut. He laughs. He often has the sense he should keep his mouth shut: it’s just that he rarely exercises it.

“Look Steve, your friends seem like assholes to me, but you obviously care about them.” Steve laughs again; a put together one this time. “I don’t know what much you can do about Tony, but you know, you can make a plan for the others.”

“How? I don’t have my shield. I burned my costume, I have no—“

“Steve, do you really think you’re just a shield and some lycra?”

“It’s not lycra, it’s—“

“Your tights are not the point here pal.” Bucky nudges him with his foot. “The point is you know how to fight. You’ve got that brain of yours – you never forget a thing you’ve seen, I’m sure we can get some schematics for that ship.”

Steve is quiet. He’s not ready to leave Bucky yet, though. He’s hardly used to having him here, tenuous connection and all.

“As for Tony, I don’t know. I...I kept a journal.”

Steve looks up. “Yeah, I found it—“

“When you were looking through my things, yeah I remember that too, asshole.” It’s said without heat.

“What was it for?”

“To help me remember. I read about it – I read a lot of books. About trauma and...”

“Really?”

“Steve; you think I got out of Hydra, remembering all this random shit I had no name or place for, and started globe-trotting for the hell of it?” Bucky’s eyebrows telegraph belligerence, even when the rest of his face is mostly impassive.

“I don’t know Buck,” Steve says. “I don’t know what you were doing.”

Bucky is so still; it’s unnerving, for a man who used to be all energy, body like a livewire, always moving, liquid and ready, tactile and easy in himself.

“Trying to get myself together. Trying to remember. Trying to forget.” He massages his forehead.

“Headache?” Bucky gets those now. They haven’t found anything that helps. Like Steve, painkillers are a challenge. They don’t exactly have the resources here they did at the compound. T’Challa and his techs are working on it, but it’s in progress.

“Yeah.” Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. When he gets them they come on hard and fast.

“Let’s get you to your room,” Steve stands, but Bucky waves him off.

“Can I just stay here?” Bucky’s hand curls into the bedcover. The request throws Steve for a minute, but he’s not about to say not to any of Bucky’s requests.

“Of course.”

“It’s just. It smells like you. I remember that.”

Warmth rises up through Steve. Unsure of what it means, he just pulls back the cover for Bucky and ignores it. Instead, he turns off the light and closes the door softly behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

T’Challa finds him alone on the veranda. The sun broke an hour ago; the humidity woke before Steve did. He’s not sure he’s ever been a place he felt comfortable wearing so little clothing. A tank top and shorts, no shoes and the best coffee he’s ever tasted at hand; other than the coffee though, Steve sits still and blank, unable to enjoy the rest. Frozen with indecision. He doesn’t move when T’Challa greets him other than a low return greeting.

“We’ve received word that Stark is back at the compound. Your friend is making slow recovery.”

“Rhodey?”

“Yes. The War Machine, they call him?”

“Yes.” Steve’s eyes are trained on the bright purple and red of little birds hopping from limb to limb on the thick foliage. He’s never been somewhere so verdant. “Thank you. For keeping me updated.”

“Of course.” T’Challa hesitates. He’s standing at the edge of the veranda, looking out over the rolling jungle. “If there is anything else I can do-”

“Yes,” Steve looks up. “We really want to thank you for it.”

“We?” Bucky says.

Steve turns at the sound of Bucky’s voice. He’s leaning against the wall. “How long have you been there?” Steve asks. In casually rumpled clothes Bucky looks like a different person. Not Bucky from before who was so meticulous about his appearance, but nothing of the Winter Soldier either. He’s wearing a blue tank top and worn track pants. Steve’s pants actually. Bucky smiles and it’s all teeth.

“I took the liberty.”

“Take away,” Steve says. T’Challa leans against the railing and smirks. Bucky doesn’t answer the original question.

“Would you like some coffee?” T’Challa gestures toward one of the chairs.

“Naw, I’m good. Had some earlier.” Bucky drops a notebook on the table. It’s well worn, pages rumpled in spots as if it’s gotten wet at some point. The color of the cover is wearing off. A ballpoint pen is stuck in the binding spirals.

“Well, I must attend to some calls. Gentlemen.”

Steve nods goodbye as Bucky raises his hand.

“So.” Steve shifts.

“So?” Bucky doesn’t smile, not quite. His eyes are bright though. Steve has been unnerved from time to time, with the lack of eye contact Bucky seems able to make. This morning though, he’s all there.

“How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

Steve turns away, the blue of Bucky’s eyes too intense. Steve woke up on the couch, stiff and also raw, shame burning through him at his own display of weakness. Who is he, to feel so torn apart when Bucky has _literally_ been torn apart?

“Here,” Bucky says. He pushes the notebook at Steve.

“You want me to...?”

“No, don’t read it.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “I mean you can, but unless you can read Russian or want more nightmares. I mean, take some paper. Write some shit down.”

“Oh.” Steve picks the notebook up, careful and slow. It’s not the one he had looked at in Bucky’s apartment. That one got left behind; this one must have been in his pack in the floorboards. It’s too worn to be new.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Bucky pauses by Steve’s chair. A long beat, and then his hand curls over Steve’s shoulder. Steve shudders out a breath. He wants to rest his cheek on it. The impulse to turn, to press his face into Bucky’s stomach and feel his hands on his hair flashes through him, which is unexpected.

“Thanks,” he chokes out, patting Bucky’s hand lamely. Once he’s gone, Steve takes another deep breath and scrubs a hand through his hair. What the hell was that?

A bird trills, loud and startling, from the trees. Steve gives himself ten minutes. Ten minutes to refocus, to forget. He thinks of Tony, what it must have been like, watching Rhodey tumbling out of the sky, and feels it in his stomach. The memory of Bucky falling is visceral. The coffee he drank is heavy at the back of his throat.

Bucky is right; Steve doesn’t want the nightmares that would accompany this notebook; he goes to the back pages and rips a few blank ones out.

_Tony,_

Steve bites the end of the pen, then pulls it away: Bucky must have already been biting it. Steve smiles and runs his fingers through his hair instead. He thinks of family. Bucky’s been Steve’s family – or was until he died. Until Steve was alone. Tony acts like he doesn’t need people when he very much does. Tony needs so badly; Steve gets the sense that so much of what lies under the broken relationship between Tony and Howard comes from this. Perhaps, before the ice, Steve was alone in many ways. A personality too big for his small, failing body. And then later, a weapon for the Army, a body with a purpose larger than his own. A man apart because he would never go into battle as vulnerable as his men. Not even the Howlies. Bucky knew him best; Bucky was home. But even Bucky could never understand. Steve thinks now that this was why Bucky had hid what Zola did from him.

The Avengers though...perhaps they might have been family. As close as Steve’s had been. But unlike them Steve has no home to go to; never could.

Clint’s home had been like a blow to the gut. Steve remembers the feel of the axe hitting the wood, how easily it split. How mindless and meditative it was. How it almost helped him forget the sudden shock of seeing Clint as a new man, one with a completely separate life, one who got to leave the Avengers at the end of the day to be greeted by everything Steve once longed for. Clint was  a man who had once seemed to stand so apart, other than Natasha. Who used humor as a shield. Steve had thought he understood that. Thought he understood who Nat was to Clint.

The whole time though, Clint had had something Steve had wanted so badly, before. During the war he’d lie in his bunk, remembering something or another Peggy had done. The way her hair smelled, the day it had rained cats and dogs. She’d come into the strategy room, slightly damp from being caught in it, scent clinging to her. Peggy had leaned over his shoulder and it was all he could do not to close his eyes and turn into her soft skin. And he’d imagined it that night. Not just her skin (though that too). But of a life touching that skin. Her smell on sheets that could be theirs. On his clothes. A small home, back home, away from war. In a time when Steve could be _Steve_ again.

Steve knew, shortly after he came out of the ice, how uselessly simple and naive those dreams had been. Because even then the government had known Steve’s worth. He’d believed in a dream where war was over. Now, Steve has seen the way history unfolded. The government’s use for him never would have ended.

Wanda had put the dream in his head. He could feel it, how it might have been to take Peggy into his arms and celebrate the end of the war; how beautiful she looked in blue, the laughter when he said that they could go home.

Now though, now when he looks at Tony’s name in his own elegant scrawl, Steve remembers how angry he had been about Ultron and Tony’s arrogance. How impossible it felt to hold a team together with so many competing agendas. Too, Steve remembers forcing himself to be fine. Forcing himself to pack away resentment at Clint’s life, to work those negative feelings out through physical exertion, the satisfying swing of the axe, the thunk as he split the wood, the rhythm of the movement. _It’s not good for the team_. He forced back anger that had blown through him when Thor left them in the lurch _. It’s not good for the team_. How easy it was to blame Tony, to justify not telling him how Wanda’s vision flayed him open. _It’s not good for the team._

With each slice of the axe, Steve had firmed his resolve and repeated the mantra. Packed it away. Pushed Tony, let himself blame Tony. Didn’t let himself hear the opening there; Tony asking, in his own way, what had happened to him. Steve shut him out; shut them all out.


	7. Chapter 7

“How’s it going?” Bucky says.

“Christ, Bucky,” Steve says, dropping the pen. “Warn a guy.”

Bucky leans over his shoulder to read; Steve has to stifle the urge to cover his words. He’s noticed, the last few days that Bucky has very little sense of privacy – his own, or Steve’s. Steve guesses this extends past him; something bred of the last 70 years. But he hasn’t brought it up.

“You writing him a letter?”

Steve looks down. He looks at it and cringes a little. _I’ve been on my own since I was 18._ Wants to tell Bucky he knows that Bucky is his family. But, it’s not true anymore is it? Steve wants Bucky to feel like family.

“Yep.” Steve picks the pen back up and fiddles with it. Underlines _my faith is in people_ and looks at the man across from him. Bucky’s hair is down, tangled, and there are shadows around his eyes. “Buck-”

Bucky waves him off. “You stuck?”

Steve sighs. “Yeah.”

“What’s the thing you most want to say?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry? I’m not sorry?”

“That’s a lousy letter pal.”

“You’re telling me.” Steve laughs. “I used to...I used to get so mad at Tony. He was always making these rogue decisions, going off on his own. He wasn’t the best at teamwork. And if you can’t work as a team, people die.”

Bucky takes his own notebook back, leaving Steve with his papers, and begins bending and re-bending the metal spiral.

“But. I was lying to him, too. Not just about his parents. Or not lying just...keeping stuff from him.”

“From him?”

Steve shrugs. “Some more than others. I didn’t....with his parents. I didn’t want to hurt him. What was the point?”

“Because you didn’t think that was me?” Bucky looks curious now, like he can’t fathom Steve’s motives.

“The Bucky I knew would never do that.”

“Yeah,” Bucky looks away. He shifts, jerking his shoulder, body braced for a weight that isn’t there anymore. “Not the guy you knew.”

“Bucky, we’ve-”

“I know Steve.” Steve can’t place the look on Bucky’s face. Resigned perhaps? It’s hard, because he’s trying to read a face he once knew like the back of his hand, but on a near stranger.

“Sounds like you had good intentions Steve. That counts for a lot, with people. You don’t have to say it perfectly, or say that you think he was right. Let’s face it, he’s not.”

Steve cracks a smile. “The Accords...I’ll never agree or think that was right. And I’m pissed about Wanda. Tony...I think he was being honest about not realizing what they would do to her. But it was still _wrong_.”

“What’s the endgame here Steve?” Bucky says after a long silence.

“I guess....I know I can handle being alone. I don’t want to be. But it wo- it won’t kill me.” Steve looks away and clenches his fingers together. “Tony...I don’t think he’s built to withstand that.”

Bucky doesn’t speak for a long time. After a while, Steve goes back to his letter, a little more confident in what he wants to say.

“Do you think you’re alone Steve?” Bucky is leaning back now, one leg crossed over the other. He’s not completely relaxed, but as close as Steve has ever seen. Steve knows, objectively, that he’s not alone. Even with Nat siding with Tony....she helped them. She asked for Steve’s trust. She came to Peggy’s funeral, as did Sam. He’ll always have Sam.

“You think I’m ungrateful?”

“Pal, I hardly know a thing about your life right now.” Bucky says and it punches through Steve’s gut. “But it sure seemed like you have a team of people willing to fight for you.”

“You’re right.” Steve flips his paper over. The way Bucky is regarding him is too much. Exposing, probing. “So. What are you up to today Buck?”

Bucky shrugs. “T’Challa wants me to go to the lab. They wanna take more of my blood.” A lifelessness creeps into his voice.

“Do you want to do that?” Steve treads carefully. “Bucky I want to be sure you don’t feel like you have to do anything-”

“I know.” Bucky’s attempt at a smile is haunting. “It’s terrible, sure. I’ve had too much of this shit for it to...it’ll never be easy. But I don’t want to be – I want to be better.”

“Better.” Steve murmurs. Such a nebulous concept right now.

“When I remember things....things from before the war. I have these flashes. Remembering happiness. Or things I enjoyed. I used to love to dance, didn’t I?”

Steve smiles. “Yes. You were great too.” When Bucky danced, his eyes were alive, stunning blue; mischievous and flirtatious. Bucky knew his body in a way that could only be described as sensual, even when his movements weren’t meant to be sexual.

“You weren’t, were you?”

“Nope, hopeless to this day.”

Steve wipes his brow with the hem of his shirt; it’s getting uncomfortably hot, and he hasn’t acclimated. Bucky watches; most people wouldn’t stare so blatantly, but again, Bucky has been conditioned out of particular social etiquettes. He’s not sure what the stare means.

“Can I come with you? What time do you have to be there?”

“Soon. Why would you want to come?”

“To be there with you, ya mook.”

Bucky bites his lip and looks away. His profile betrays his smile. “Yeah, Steve. That would be nice.”

~*~

Bucky is eerily docile during the testing. They draw his blood and he stares at a wall; Steve is aware that he’s more obviously uncomfortable than Bucky, shifting and flinching as they lead Bucky to do brain scans. The only sign of distress is a sharp in-taken breath as they slide him into the tube. He settles and through the observation window Steve can here the jarring clacking and whirring of the machine.

After, Steve takes Bucky by the arm, unable to help himself, hoping his touch might ground Bucky, bring him back a little. It takes a moment before it does. Bucky offers him a smile and leans into him for just an instant before pulling away.

“You hungry? Need to eat or..?”

“Tired.” Bucky yawns. “Hungry.”

Steve laughs. “Come on back, I think they had some dinner sent to my room.”

On the table in his small set of rooms is a huge spread of food. Too big even for Steve’s appetite. They were anticipating Bucky too, it seems. There’s a large variety of foods.

“Anything you can eat here?” They found rather quickly, and violently, that some foods trigger Bucky; some foods make him ill. Some foods, ones he loved, taste terrible now. They don’t know though, until he eats them. He’d known some of them, having learned over the last few years, but they’re still finding small landmines in Bucky’s brain Hydra planted over the years.

“Yeah,” Bucky begins spooning a rice pilaf onto a plate. “There’s safe foods here.”

Steve eats a little of some things and a lot of others.

“Wanna turn on the T.V.?” Bucky asks. “Awful quiet in here.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Sorry I’m not much for conversation.” All he can think to ask are minefield questions. If Bucky remembers this or that. What happened to him? How did he get himself back?

Bucky turns on the television manually; the first thing that pops up is a breaking news story.

“Although it has been confirmed that the Winter Soldier was not, in fact, the perpetrator of the U.N. bombings, we have uncovered these images from the Leipzig/Halle airport security footage. Authorities warn that the Soldier is still at large, considered a highly dangerous, and encourage any leads as to his whereabouts be sent to the following hotline number.”

Steve stands, reaching to turn it off, but Bucky pushes him back roughly. “No.” Bucky mutes the T.V. and watches, then rewinds and watches again, looping old video they are now showing of himself battling Steve on the bridge. His body is drawn so tight Steve finds himself holding his breath, hands poised as if to touch him, afraid to do so. Bucky’s triggers are a nightmare mystery to them, and they still have no idea where to begin sorting them out. Even knowing the nine words, and some of the foods, they all recognize that there might be more triggers left behind. For all Steve knows, this is a trigger and he’s a breath away from destroying these rooms in a fight to bring Bucky back to himself.

Eventually, Steve turns away. Stares at the food blindly.

“I’ve got to lie down,” Bucky mutters. His fingers are at his temples, his body wracked with tremors.

“Buck-”

“It’s okay Stevie.” Bucky takes a breath. “I just need. I gotta. Pull myself to-together.”

“Need me-”

“No, not now.” Bucky leaves. The air is charged, but Steve can’t tell if that’s Bucky, fighting to stay together pulling it taut, or himself, fighting to keep himself from pushing too far.

He wants to follow – feels like he must, like he needs – but knows that that urge is about himself, and not Bucky. Instead, he forces himself to put the remaining food away; cleans their plates and tidies the kitchen. Pulls one of the heavy armchairs in the living room toward the large French doors set within the floor to ceiling windows and sits, letting the cooling evening wind wash over him as the jungle begins to settle into night. Frogs begin to sing as startling blue of the sky bleeds away.

~*~

It’s full dark and the stars have been blotted out by an incoming storm. The air is still and pregnant, a breath held before the lighting comes. Steve has watched these storms come in before; thrilled at the unfettered view, nothing but the wild between his room and the horizon. But tonight, he’s tired. Tired and worried; he’s hoped for several hours that Bucky might come back, but he hasn’t. Steve doesn’t think he can sleep, but he can try.

He doesn’t turn on the lights in his room, but makes his way in the dark toward his own windows, opening the drapes so he can watch the storm from his bed.

“Stevie?”

“Christ!” Steve whirls around; there’s a dark shape on his bed. A Bucky-shaped shape.

“How many times you gonna take the lord’s name?”

“How many times you gonna sneak up on me?” Steve’s hand is over his heart. He didn’t realize Bucky had meant Steve’s bed when he said he was going to lie down.

“You gonna sleep now?” Bucky’s voice is slurred; he must have been out cold.

“I’ll go out,” Steve offers, “I can sleep on the couch.”

“Don’t be a dumbass,” Bucky sits up and pulls the covers back. “Get in here.”

Steve’s hesitates for too long apparently.

“Look, I can go if you want. I thought – I remembered...”

“We used to share a bed, yeah. When it was cold,” Steve whispers.

“Well it’s not cold, but could you maybe?” Steve’s vision is good in the dark; not good enough to get a good read on Bucky’s expression. Vulnerability is laced in the words. Steve sits next to him, careful not to get too close. Bucky lays back and so does Steve. He struggles not to jolt out of his skin when Bucky turns toward him, pressing his nose to Steve’s bicep.

“It’s like home,” Bucky says. “I don’t really remember home. Just that you feel like it, sometimes.”

Steve bites his lip, hard, and exhales as evenly as he can. The lump in his throat keeps words stuck deep inside. 


	8. Chapter 8

Steve wakes slowly, overwarm and lethargic, heavy -dumb in his bones and muscles. It’s full sun out. He has no idea how long he’s been asleep; it’s been so long since he’s slept like this it takes him a few moments to realize that he’s overwarm because Bucky is wrapped around him. Bucky’s hand is splayed over his heart. The bedroom window is open and the sill and floor in front of it are wet. That storm must have rolled through, and he slept through it all. Steve smiles and lets himself relax into Bucky’s hold.

“Mmmm,” Bucky shifts. It’s been a while; Steve is sweating lightly but floating a little too. Even during the war they’d never slept like this, so close – Steve’s never slept like this with anyone. It’s heartbreakingly lovely. He touches the back of Bucky’s hand with a fingertip.

“Oh.” Bucky startles and pulls away. When Steve rolls over, Bucky is sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s rumpled and his face is red. “Sorry.”

“Hey,” Steve lays on his side. He has no idea what’s going on; not in his chest or in this bed. “It’s okay.”

Bucky shoots him a small smile; it’s grateful and sweet and so, so very Bucky that Steve has to blink away the prickling in his eyes. Bucky rolls out his shoulder, which had to have been trapped between his body and the bed while they slept.

“You alright?” Steve watches as Bucky uses his hand to dig into his neck. Bucky stretches it a bit.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.” Bucky blows his hair out of his face. It’s exasperated and cute. Steve’s not sure if it’s catching up on his sleep or being here with Bucky, but he feels giddy.

“Here,” Steve gets up on his knees, slowly eases the hair tie off of Bucky’s wrist. Bucky is still and watchful. Steve gathers his hair into a sloppy bun for him. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Bucky says. “Maybe I should cut it off. Can’t always have someone doing my hair for me.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve says. Bucky’s never voiced an ounce of complaint over the loss of his arm. When T’Challa mentioned making another one Bucky had winced, a memory of pain skittering across his features. He’d told them to go ahead anyway. It’s only a matter of time until they have one for him.

~*~

Steve is back outside when Bucky finds him a few hours later. T’Challa’s aides have helpfully supplied him with good pencils and large sheets of paper, the size of poster boards.

“And here I thought you were drawing something,” Bucky says.

“I am drawing something,” Steve doesn’t look up from the rough plans he’s drafting. Everything he remembers about the makeup of the Raft.

“I mean something, you know,” Bucky waves his hand, “artistic.”

“Aw, you don’t think my lines are graceful enough?” Steve smirks and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Shut up.” Bucky is smiling, but it’s troubled. Steve sets his pencil down and stands. His back twinges – he’s been leaning over this table and drawing for over an hour.

“What’s going on Buck?” Bucky had left this morning without telling Steve where he was going. Steve didn’t press – he never does, so far as he can help. Bucky’s hand twitches, and then he looks away. Steve watches his chest rise as he takes a deep breath; how it fills out his shoulders. Bucky’s not nearly as broad as his Winter Soldier gear made him seem. Still, he’s tightly muscled and despite what seems to be a limited diet, strong. Steve wouldn’t mind drawing him; could for hours.

“Steve...” Bucky makes another aborted movement and bites his lip. He seems to make up his mind about something and then comes around the table and hugs him. Steve jolts a little, stiffening with surprise. Bucky pulls him tighter, until Steve relaxes a bit, puts his arms around him. Bewildered, he resists the urge to put his cheek against Bucky’s hair. Bucky turns his face into Steve’s neck and when he speaks it’s low and urgent and Steve has to bite his lip and focus on the words and not on the chills that roll down his spine.

“Stevie, I...I talked to T’Challa. I think. I think it’s best if I go back into cryo. T’Challa can do that – they can do that here.”

Steve jerks away like he’s been burned, hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “Wait, what?” He swallows and turns away and closes his eyes.

“Steve, hear me out, okay?”

There’s so much in Bucky’s voice – so much more life than there has been these last days. It’s not good though – it’s a little fear and pain and Steve knows he has to pull himself together, for Bucky’s sake.

“Okay,” he turns and pulls out his chair. Takes another breath.

“I know you probably have questions, and you never were too good at listening before you were ready, so...”

“When did – how did you know that they could do cryo?”

“T’Challa. Told me when we got here; when we spoke about what resources they had here.”

“I didn’t even know you spoke to him.”

“Steve, we were both in really rough shape.”

They weren’t together, when Steve woke up; he’d come to in a room alone and panicked. Steve remembers ripping out the IV and cannula staggering from his bed and calling Bucky’s name, terrified he’d lost him again. They’d taken him to see Bucky almost straight away. He’d been on a bed, eyes glazed and completely lax, nearly unresponsive.

Steve feels both betrayed and conflicted. “Is this because of last night?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, blunt and fast and Steve feels his face loosing blood. “That’s one reason.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t – if you felt uncomfortable-”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts, lips twisting. “I didn’t mean that.”

Steve remembers abruptly the news, Bucky watching himself on screen over and over. He closes his eyes. “Sorry, that was dumb.”

“Don’t-” Bucky jerks his shoulder. “I asked you, moron.”

Steve shrugs and looks away and then clears his throat. “Bucky – about the news, does it-”

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Steve points out.

“Does it matter? My answer is that I have to do this. Steve, please try to understand. I’ve worked – all that time, these last few years, everything I’ve done, and it didn’t stop what happened. I’m still their weapon.”

Steve holds Bucky’s gaze then. This, he does understand. Being a weapon for someone else. Only Bucky has no choice. Rather, this is him making one, perhaps the only one he can see how.

“It’s not forever.”

“So when’s it ‘til?” Steve makes a fist under the table.

“Until you can find the answers. I know...I know how much you’ve sacrificed for me, don’t think I don’t.”

“Yeah.” Steve wipes his face with his hand, over his hair.

“Which means I know you won’t stop now. I’m trusting you. I need to get these words out of my head.”

“Buck-” Steve stops when his voice fails. When his chest feels too tight. Remembers, when his asthma was at its worst, his Ma teaching Bucky to rub his chest, to coach his breathing. He doesn’t need Bucky like that anymore. Doesn’t need anyone, not to make his body work with him or for him. But still, he aches, as if the phantom need for a touch meant to help or to heal has burrowed irrevocably under his skin. He wants to argue; to put his fist right through the table. Do something stupid and dramatic because he doesn’t know what words he could even use right now. There’s a feeling of wanting that’s almost too big, inside, and no words to help him describe it. He doesn’t even know what he wants, because he knows on some level that Bucky is right. To know that Bucky trusts him this much is a gift alone, and he should be damn grateful for it. Bucky’s a whole hell of a lot stronger than Steve is, and there’s nothing Steve can do now but to honor it and what Bucky wants.

“If you’re sure.”

Bucky looks away. His hair has fallen from its knot and he absently tucks it behind his ear. “Yeah.”

There’s not much else to say, then. Later, maybe, he’ll ask Bucky to help him start drafting a plan. Ask him to look at the drawings he’s come up with. Figure out how the hell he’s gonna get his friends off that boat without someone at his six.

Steve slowly, methodically shreds the corner of one of his pages. Tears the strips into tiny pieces. By the time someone comes to ask if they want to eat dinner outside, he has a small pile of ragged confetti and is almost unable to breathe but doing his damnedest to hide that from Bucky. He’s stolen looks, every now and then. Bucky is still; utterly motionless, staring at some point in the distance. So far inside his head Steve doesn’t want to know what he’s thinking or remembering. Bucky smiles and says yes, please. Steve sifts the paper pieces through his fingers. When the food comes, he watches Bucky push his hair away again as he picks through the offerings.

“Here.” Steve stands. He doesn’t touch Bucky until Bucky nods permission, and then slowly does the work of putting it up again. He takes his time, now. Not rushing through an intimacy that felt strange before. But knowing he won’t get it again for a long time. Bucky doesn’t move when Steve combs his fingers through his hair. Doesn’t even breathe. Steve hardly feels like he is; hardly feels his body at all. Finally, when he’s done, Steve doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Bucky’s head is tilted down.

“Thanks,” he says, so quiet it’s almost lost in birdsong and the endless rustle of trees. Steve touches the back of his neck, movements dream slow, and then pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. What the hell?

“Sor-”

“Steve.” Bucky looks back at him. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

“Yeah?”

Bucky’s half smile is terrible and haunting. “Yeah. Now go eat before it gets cold.”


	9. Chapter 9

By the time Steve drags himself into his room, intent on feigning sleep until the inevitable sunrise, he’s completely spent. Bucky had asked him along to every agonizing meeting. Details of how cryo would go. Potential ideas for how to deprogram Bucky’s training – avenues to explore, and then the logistics of executing them. Everyone present, Bucky and Steve included, seemed to think that Wanda, Sam or Nat might be helpful.

This of course necessitates freeing Sam and Wanda – all of the Avengers really – which Steve was planning to do anyway. Locating Nat will be a challenge, and Steve is worried he might not be able to convince her.

For Bucky though, Steve puts on a brave face. Or at the very least, stoic. Bucky is reserved enough in the meeting when they show him the cryo tube they’ve developed. When the procedure is described to him, and how he can prep ahead of time. Bucky told him once, how Hydra prepped him for cryo in the past. Steve is intensely grateful for T’Challa’s people, who don’t have to be told to give Bucky the highest degree of dignity and privacy they can in this process.

Steve finds his room empty and feels a pang. Somehow, after last night, the hope that Bucky would stay with him overnight had taken root. Steve can’t help but picture Bucky’s face, frozen in that photo in the files Natasha gave him, a snapshot of a preserved weapon, helpless in the hands of cruelty. Steve’s hands are big – they were even before the serum. He stares at them, perched on the edge of his bed. Traces his lifeline and thinks about what it means: to project or hope for a future. It seems that every time Steve turns, his life is changing fantastically, painfully. How foolish he’d been, to think that Erskine’s offer would change his fortunes. He’s been helpless inside this body for so long. After the serum, Steve was never more helpless. Not in the face of violence, but in the forces of power and authority around him.

He’s always had an innate sense of right and wrong. And he’s proud that he’s never been tempted to bend, that his moral compass is strong enough to guide him even when it’s hard. Somehow, that hasn’t stopped terrible things happening to him or those he loves.

“Steve?” Bucky appears, sits next to him on the bed. “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ve been calling for you.”

“Oh,” Steve looks up. “I was thinking I guess.”

Bucky sits still. The bed dips with their combined weight, and they are shoulder to shoulder.

“I _am_ sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Steve says in surprise.

“I – this will be hard for you right?”

“Buck. As long as you’re sure, I am surely going to support you.” Steve says. He doesn’t press, although he wants to. To mine the truth in Bucky’s request. Be sure he really wants it. It would be a selfishness, he thinks, to keep pushing.

“Will you be alright?” Bucky’s eyes are dark, a blue Steve hasn’t found elsewhere in his lifetime.

“Of course,” Steve says. “I always come out on the other side. You know me.”

“Do-” Bucky starts and then stops himself. It’s late and somehow, Steve is sleepy. Wrung out from the day.

“Buck...” Steve forces himself to take an even breath. “Would you – would you stay tonight. Here?”

“Yeah, Steve. Of course.” Buck, bumps his shoulder. “Let me get out of these clothes and I’ll come right back.”

Steve changes while Bucky is gone, strips to an undershirt and his boxers. Is it selfishness, to want to keep Bucky close? Is it strange, how much easier in his skin he’s felt the last two days?

Bucky turns off the lights when he comes in, which makes it easier, somehow. To get into bed and lift the sheet for him. To turn onto his side and face Bucky, secure that the dark will mask his face. The day has slowly worn his ability to hide this powerful, swelling anger and pain.

“Do you remember,” Bucky says, voice muted in the dark, “that time you had pneumonia...I think we were about seventeen?”

“I couldn’t do anything for weeks after.” Steve closes his eyes, picturing himself perfectly. Bored and frustrated with forced stillness. Snapping at his mother and Bucky, who came like clockwork to visit. “You came every day.”

“And I read to you. We were like this, in your bed.”

It had been close to dark and Steve’s mother had been working. Bucky had complained of being exhausted. They’d shared a bed before, as kids. Suddenly Steve remembers too, that they’d fallen asleep and when he woke up, Bucky had been there still, holding his hand. They’d never spoken of it; Steve assumed that it was just a thing that happened while they slept.

“I was so scared, when we were kids, every time you got sick.”

“I guess you understand then, how I felt when you went to war.”

“I guess you and I just can’t help it,” Bucky says. Steve can hear the sarcasm, can imagine the twist of Bucky’s lips then.

“Can’t help what?”

“Always feeling like this. Scared for each other.”

Steve bites his lip, hard and turns his face into the pillow.

“Stevie, it’s okay,” Bucky says. He shifts closer. Puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve nods, a stupid thing to do in the dark, but Bucky feels it through his body. He puts his hand on the back of Steve’s neck and presses his forehead to Steve’s. Steve shakes his head.

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

“Steve, I trust you.” Bucky squeezes the back of his neck to emphasize his words. “I know you’ll come through for me. You always have, even when I wasn’t me. Even now, when I’m not who I was. You’ve fought for me. You’ll keep fighting, I know.”

“I will, Buck.”

“I know. Because even when I told you I wasn’t sure I was worth it, you gave so much up for me.”

Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s. He’s been adrift and shaken. He’s not sure who he is without his shield. He has no idea who he’ll be without Bucky again. The pain of it is huge, the edge of uncertainty cuts through him. But now, Bucky is with him. He’s solid and real and pulling Steve into his arms. His lips find the top of Steve’s head; somehow, Steve fits, head under Bucky’s chin, arms around him locked so tight.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three
> 
> Wakanda, 2016-2017

**_2016_ **

**__ **

“Clint’s made it,” Nat says. Steve nods. Nat’s got a different phone, this one must be secure for communication for her and Clint. He doesn’t ask. T’Challa had helped Steve locate her, and she’d been indispensable in helping him get everyone off the raft. When he asked, she came to Wakanda without pause.

Steve is grateful, really. To have Sam with him again and Nat. Wanda sits in the sunshine, quiet and absorbed in the trees. She doesn’t speak much but Steve feels her gratitude. He wishes he could give her a different life, so urgently.  He doesn’t have the energy though. It’s only ten in the morning and Steve longs for his bed.

They changed his sheets while he was gone. Of course they had: still, Steve had come back to his room, still sweating, shivering in the aftermath of a battle even days after the fight. His room was pristine, all trace of Bucky erased. The loss of it had lanced through him. Later, Sam had had to physically stop Steve from going to see Bucky in cryo.

“It’s not good for you man, I can tell.”

Steve couldn’t tell Sam then, how time had become both liquid and blank. How he found himself in the shower, curled up with water pruned fingers, no idea how long he’d been in there. How the mirror reflected a shadow, a man with a mask and a shield. Under his own fingers though, Steve was nothing. Naked and empty and meaningless.

Instead, he nodded and let Sam talk him into lunch and a strategy session.

“Here’s the thing,” Sam speaks around a mouthful of French toast. “I can work on some techniques I’ve read up on. But I’m not really an expert at the level of help he needs. And he hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Steve interjects.

“Oh, no,” Sam says, as cheerful as ever. “I think we had a very mutual moment. Of course it was heat of the battle.”

“Sam,” Steve says. “You don’t have to do this. You’ve already done too much for me.”

“Man, no one is making me do anything I don’t want to do.” Sam says. “How many times do I have to tell you this?”

Nat snorts. She isn’t eating. She’s been thinking in her way, quiet and internally focused. “It’s Steve,” she says by way of explanation and Sam nods.

“True.”

“What does that mean?”

Wanda has come over, drawn to the platter of rich fruits and cheeses. “It means you think you must give yourself to others but don’t understand that others want to extend the same loyalty.”    

“I understand loyalty just fine,” Steve says. He stuffs some cheese in his mouth to prevent anything sharp from coming out.

“Sassy Steve, come to play,” Sam says, wide smiling and in his way, all astute eyes and care.

“We know you do,” Nat says. “We’re here, right? Helping you in yet another act of insane loyalty.”

It stings, to know that they see his loyalty to Bucky like this. But he can’t argue. He’s followed Bucky to the ends of the world. Has fought for him even when he was trying to kill Steve.

“Steve.” Wanda touches his shoulder. “Take this gift. We give it freely.” When he smiles up at her, she’s glaring daggers at Nat. Nat shrugs it off, but after a very long pause, shifts.

“She’s right.” Nat kicks him lightly under the table. “We’re with you.”

 _To the end of the line_ Bucky haunts, always somewhere lurking in Steve’s mind. It’s not the same, and yet, it is.

~*~

 “I don’t want to rush this,” Steve says. He and Sam are buried under texts about psychotherapy, deprograming therapies and behavioral therapies. Steve doesn’t get half of what he reads and Sam is spending more time explaining it than researching.

“We won’t,” Sam says. Patiently. For the seventieth time. Steve’s neuroses alone are going to kill this friendship, he’s sure.

Steve bookmarks potential articles on his tablet to send to Sam and Dr. Giavalvo later. With T’Challa he and Sam had found a short list of specialized candidates who might be willing to come in and consult on Bucky’s care. Dr. Giavalvo had passed all of Natasha’s scrutiny and security checks, and then T’Challa’s as well.

“This is a nightmare,” Steve says, shutting his eyes and rubbing them. They ache; his whole body does. He’s been coming back here, after everyone settles in for the night, poring over the texts Sam sets aside as having potential. Time seems to have stretched, molasses slow and sticky.

“Steve, they had him for seventy years. We can’t fix this in a week. I know that. No one is rushing.”

“I know,” Steve snaps, and fists his hand on the table. He sighs. “Sorry Sam, I don’t mean to be taking this out on you.”

“You’ve got a lot going on,” Sam says carefully. “You sleeping?” Steve can tell that Sam knows the answer. He forces a smile.

“Who’s been telling on me?”

Sam just shrugs and smirks. “I’ve got my ways. You aren’t the only one here with experience in covert ops.”

“I’m a covert op now?”

Sam laughs as Steve wanted him too. His eyes crinkle when he laughs; Steve realizes with a jolt that Sam is really very handsome.

“Sam, can I ask you something?”

“I don’t see how anything’s ever stopped you before?” Sam doesn’t look up from the article he’s skimming. The side is lined with flagged post it notes, marking things of interest.

“You got a girl?”

“Why do you assume it might be a girl?”

Steve flushes hot and fast. “I’m sorry I-“

“I’m just messing with you. No, no one special right now. You’re with me all of my free time, seems like. When would I have time?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. He traces the edge of the table. The room they are in is in an inner recess of the compound, with no natural light. The walls are grey – everything seems grey to Steve. Sam closes his book and puts his elbows on the table.

“I haven’t....I haven’t had anything to offer a girl in a long time Steve,” he says.

“That can’t be-”

“I don’t mean I’m not a catch.” Sam crosses his arms and sits back. “I mean, emotionally. After Riley....I was a mess. And now...” He levels a look at Steve so bare Steve’s breath catches and he has to look away. “I’m not saying the door is closed forever. But it would take someone really special to fit into this life, don’t you think?”

“You could leave it, though, if you wanted to. Go home.”

“True. But I’d have to _want_ to go.”

Steve’s not sure what is worse; thinking he’s keeping Sam from romantic fulfillment or realizing that because of him, Sam’s had to give up his wings.

“You were right, you know. I didn’t just walk away from the Accords for you,” Sam says, reading Steve perfectly.

“I know.” Steve does. In so many ways, Sam’s been the perfect partner. He has a very real and grounded sense of who he is and what he believes is right. He’s fearless and compassionate; less reckless than Steve but fierce too. “Sorry Sam,” he says. “I don’t know what’s going on with me. Everything seems to have fallen apart so quickly, I’m not sure which way is north, and I can’t shake the feeling that I signed us all up for a fight that belongs to me.”

“Steve, the Accords were _wrong_ _-_ ”

“I don’t mean just that Sam.”

Sam exhales sharply and straightens the pile of books in front of him. “I know you don’t. But it’s all part and parcel. What Hydra did to him was wrong. I would not ever forgive myself if I didn’t do my best to do right by him, regardless of if I think he’s an asshole or not.”

Steve laughs because Sam’s irreverence is a balm too.

“I’m not just here for him though. You know that right? And I’m not here because you asked me to. I’m here because I care about you. I want you to be alright too.”

Steve waves this off, “I’m fine, you know me.”

“Yeah,” Sam says quietly. “I do. Don’t for a second believe that, but I think you really do. Or, you really want to. I get it man. Your situation is fucked up. But I’m here whenever you are ready.”

 _For what?_ Steve doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t want the answer.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh long chapter is loooong.

On a level, Steve knows this is unhealthy. On another, he could care less.

He goes to bed each night with a record on. He plays all of Bucky’s favorites, from back in the day. He remembers him, flushed and sheened with sweat, a girl in his arms, dancing. Wide smiled and handsome.

And this is what trips him up. Because there are nights, like tonight, when these memories wake Steve’s body up like it hasn’t since Peggy. The first time it happened, Steve had come into his cupped hand, biting his lip, vaguely ashamed and deeply confused.

Now it’s the only thing that makes him feel close to Bucky at all. All he has is the memory of Bucky in his bed. Of Bucky’s lips on his forehead and a fantasy of them on his own mouth. After, in what might be an afterglow, Steve makes himself stop dissecting it. These nights, and his fantasies, the fleeting moments in desire are the only time Steve feels present in his body. Alive and alright.

 Mornings are harder.

 This morning is too-bright. Steve wakes on edge. He can’t eat his breakfast; instead he pushes it around.

 “Steve.”

 “Yeah?” Steve looks up to find both Nat and Sam exchanging a worried look.

 “Where’d you go?” Sam asks.

“What do you mean? I haven’t let the compound since the Raft.” Steve spears some fruit and forces himself to chew and swallow.

“We’ve been trying to get your attention,” Nat says. The breeze ruffles her hair. It’s long still, and curled. The sunlight gilds it; her. She’s lovely, Steve knows objectively. He’s never felt desire for her, despite their closeness, the time spent with her, even their kiss. Other than Peggy, and now the memory of Bucky, Steve’s never really felt that pull.

“I guess I didn’t sleep well last night,” Steve says. He puts his fork down.

“Steve,” Nat starts. “Your hands are shaking.”

Steve looks down: they are. His whole body is tingling with something. His heart, normally slow and steady, pounds.

“Steve look at me,” Sam commands. “Take a breath.”

“I’m fine,” Steve says. His voice is sharper than it should be, only he’s not in control. Of his words, of his body. The chair falls over, he pushes away from the table so abruptly.

“Steve,” Nat says. She follows him back into the complex, and when she puts her hand on his arm he jerks it away.

“Nat. I’m fine. Stop.”

“Is this good for you?” Natasha says, sharp and direct in her way. “Is he good for you? Are you sure about this?”

“What?” Steve says. “I promised him. It’s _Bucky_.”

“But what about you Steve? _You’re_ not well.”

Steve recoils, and turns to leave.

“Steve,” Sam says, quietly. “Natasha has a point. I get it, I know you’ve made Bucky promises. I know that you’re with him ‘til the end. But-”

“You don’t understand. There is no _me_ without him.”

Nat looks at Sam, who sighs. Steve tucks his hands in his pockets. “I know how that sounds. It’s – it’s not like that.” _But what if it is?_ “I just. Bucky...” How to explain? That Bucky is the only one who can ever really know Steve, now that Peggy is gone. That they know a shadow of him. Yes, they know him as more than just Captain America. But even Steve doesn’t know his own depth, his own self, like he did.

“Okay,” Sam says. “You know we just want what’s best for you, right? Because we care?”

“Of course,” Steve says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Despite the conversation and its heavy turn, his heart is slowing. “Look, this is a lot. And I appreciate your help. But please-” he looks at Natasha, “understand that I’m all in. You don’t have to help me, but if you want to; if you choose to be here; you can’t ask me if he’s good for me. If this is a good idea.”

“Alright,” Natasha says. She steps closer and her hand on his arm is gentle. Steve thinks maybe she’s being honest, honestly herself and open with them both. “But Steve, you can’t stop us from worrying. You can’t make us not care. You said once...” she swallows, “that maybe I could be a friend. And that’s what I’m trying to do.”

“I...I appreciate that. From both of you.” Steve smiles at Sam. His shoulders are still so tight, his body coiled and sore.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “You wanna try to eat again?”

Steve looks away; there’s something shameful in being seen like this, like he’s a child who must be cared for. “Sure.” He can force himself to do many things; he can put his body into combat, indo danger. He can pretend to eat and be well until he can escape and lose himself in memory, in a soundtrack to his former life, former self; out of this shell he’s becoming.

**~*~**

That night, he dreams about Bucky. He’s beautiful, flashing in and out, water colored and soft. Wet just out of the water at Coney Island while Steve sweats on the beach and tries not to watch. Next to him on their bed, reading because Steve is too sick to do it. Unbuttoned and loose in liquor, telling Steve just how soft Eileen’s thigh was, what it felt like to cup her breast while Steve ached.

Steve didn’t want that, but he craved Bucky’s words.

He drifts up from the dream, flushed and sweating. Tells himself to go back to sleep, wills himself out of dreams.

But in sleep, Bucky only glows more beautiful. So much that it’s hard to look at him. When he touches Steve, it’s in this very bed. His kiss isn’t to his forehead. He tastes Steve’s tears, his lips. Rolls Steve onto his back _. I want to make you feel good Stevie._

Steve’s never been touched like this – maybe with Peggy he could, if he hadn’t waited too long. In dreams Bucky touches his ribs and breathes soft words into his belly button. Pulls him slowly out of his shorts and absolutely devastates Steve with licks and kisses, taking him deep and then deeper into his throat. When Steve tries to touch him, fingers aching to tangle in his hair, they go through him. He’s a haunted thing, wracked with pleasure as he waits; coming into the bed alone, into the dark, cold and empty.

~*~

“Sam.” Steve steels himself. They’re in what Steve’s come to think of as the situation room. No one else has come yet. Steve can’t leave the dream behind; nor his confusion. “Can I...I need to ask something. Really personal.”

“About me?”

“No, me.”

“Alright.” Sam pushes away the book he was reading. When he sits back, arms crossed, his body is loose and relaxed. It helps.

“You know how...with Peggy. I waited too long.”

“For?”

“To make a move, as you guys say,” Steve says, a small laugh in his words. “At the end, before I got on the Valkyrie, she kissed me. I didn’t realize – after the serum, I...I felt invincible.”

“You thought you had more time,” Sam says. Steve nods. Traces the edge of the table. That invincibility – Steve has wondered if it was his fault Bucky died. Because he treated them all, the Howlies and himself, that way. He doesn’t remember thinking of it like that with them at the time. But what if it colored everything he asked of them?

Steve clears his throat and tries to shrug that off.

“Bucky...he would come home after he took a girl out. Went dancing. He would tell me about it. The fast girls. The sweet ones. What it was like.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. His eyebrows twitch, a question, prompting Steve to continue.

“And...I liked that. It was like – well I never really wanted-” he clears his throat. This conversation is about as hard as he thought it would be. “When he set me up on dates; I never really felt the way I should have toward them. When they kissed me, or when I tried to touch them. Something was missing. I always said I was waiting for the right dance partner, and Bucky would laugh. He tried to find her for me. We both knew I wasn’t the kind of catch a girl wanted. Not when Bucky was there.”

“Steve-”

“No, Sam it’s okay.” Steve waves this off. It doesn’t matter anymore. “It’s not like I didn’t want...you know.”

Sam smiles. “Do I? Tell me, really.”

Steve laughs off Sam’s teasing. “The thing is, it sort of felt like something was wrong with me, back then. I wanted it in theory but in person – and when I met Peg,” Steve’s body flushes hot and bright with the memory, “I never felt a thing like that before, Sam. Like my whole body was on fire, like she lit my whole mind up.”

“That sounds great Steve. I think lots of people would wish for that. Like, you just knew, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. Sam gets it, which is a relief. Makes the next part easier.

“You know how Nat keeps trying to set me up on dates?”

“I think we’ve all been guilty of that. Even Tony was in on it.”

“What?” Steve covers his face with his hand.

“What? We didn’t want you to be alone. Like that.”

“Everyone is concerned about my...private life?” Steve can’t help the blush that stains his cheeks.

“No,” Sam says, patiently and easily. “Your sex life...well I mean I guess it’s a thing people wonder about. But not just that. Everyone wanted – wants – you to be happy. You seem like the kind of guy that was meant for that kind of love. What you wanted with Peggy.”

Steve smiles, sadness curling inside him. What he had with Peggy is a dream that died when he woke from the ice.

“Sam, ever since I’ve been here I’ve known I wouldn’t find anyone like that. I tried; I’ve gone on dates. My heart just isn’t in it. I don’t ever feel... _it_.”

“Okay, nothing wrong with that.” Sam says. He’s easy in his assurance. Steve wishes he had a fraction of that ease.

“Isn’t there? I mean...isn’t that what’s normal? People wanting other people?” He doesn’t mention Bucky, how all of a sudden Bucky is what he wants. Bucky’s memory that’s woken his body up.

“Look, Steve. I don’t know that there really is a normal. Like, not in real life man. There’s this idea out there. That what we should want, what’s right, normal; but really it’s a construct. Men falling for women. Women for men. Happily ever after, kids, a house. The truth is that it’s all made up ideas society creates and then directs people to adhere to. It’s not just straight people living the ‘American Dream’, or whatever bullshit that is.”

“Well, I’m not blind or dumb Sam. We had queers in my day too. It was different though. Than it is now.”

Sam leans forward, eyes direct. “It’s more than that Steve. It’s more than just people saying they are gay, or straight. Sexuality, identity, even gender – now there’s so much conversation about them being a spectrum. Different names for different identities. Asexual. Bisexual.”

“And?” Steve twitches, impatient and unsettled.

“Look, I’m no expert in these things. What I’m trying to say is that the way you feel attraction doesn’t have to be what you’ve always thought is normal. Which means it’s not _abnormal_. It’s just you.”

Steve thinks this over; his face pulling tight enough into a frown that he can feel it. Sure, what Sam is saying makes a sort of sense. Not the words necessarily, but the idea. Only. It seems different, to think of Bucky like that. Bucky is no dame. Fairies; well Steve had known of them. The idea hadn’t ever bothered him personally. There were circles where it would never be spoken of, in the circle of Steve’s life, it mostly wasn’t. With the artists, in his classes, conversation existed, in the periphery. He’d never been deep enough in that circle though. His life had been survival, his mother until she passed, Bucky. Then, the war.

 Now it’s different. People speak of everything. Often, Steve mourns the idea of privacy and discretion. Then again, there’s something about people stripping themselves to honest creatures that appeals to him. Not that crudity is honesty, exactly. But sex; beauty and desire and bodies, these are utterly human. They just exist differently.

“Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve looks up. Forces a smile. “Thanks Sam. I’ll—this is something to think about.”

“Well, if you need me, you know where to find me.” They laugh. “Look, don’t...if you feel like you want to know more, you know you’ll find it all and too much more on the internet. And I’m not saying you shouldn’t. But you can just let yourself be, too. Be whoever you are, want what you want. I know that with us,” Sam gestures, as if they were all with them, the Avengers and more, “none of us care. We’re with _you_.”

The door opens behind them, a soft click that Steve knows means Wanda has come in. Natasha enters a room with authority. T’Challa, most often with others, advisors or guards.

“Good morning,” Wanda says. She touches Steve’s shoulder as she passes, settles in the chair next to him. “Any developments?”

“Just more reading,” Steve says easily, as if they’ve been researching anything at all this morning.

“I had an idea,” Wanda says. “About the words.”

“Oh?” Steve turns toward her.

“I know you don’t think that I can remove them-”

“-safely,” Sam interrupts. “We don’t doubt your skill.”

“Safely, as you say.” She turns her attention to Sam. Her stillness is unsettling. It’s unlike Natasha’s. Natasha is still like a large cat, a predator in way, coiled energy perfectly controlled. Wanda is too still for a girl her age. Too aged by experience and grief. “Because it is more than just the words; it’s the memories. It’s the...” she tilts her head.

“PTSD,” Sam supplies. “At the very least. Conditioning. Changes to his brain and personality caused by experiments. Shock therapy.” He looks over at Steve and grimaces. “Sorry man.”

“Don’t be,” Steve says. “We’ve all read the file.”

“Well, no,” Wanda says. Steve won’t let her; the others have agreed. “Perhaps, however, if you trusted me I could help more. Perhaps if you all stopped treating me like a child.”

“Wanda.” Steve tries for patience.

“Steve,” Wanda says; her voice, sharpened this way, falls more heavily on her accent. “You trust me with war. You trust me to fight with you to save him in battle. But not in here? Not in his mind?”

Wanda, small with a shackle around her throat, haunts him. Because yes, he had asked her to do battle for him then. Sometimes, Steve can’t sleep at night, but for thinking of it.

“Steve, you and I are the only ones here who asked for this, for our power,” Wanda says. An orb of red appears at her fingertips. “I have not been a child for a very long time. I understand risk. I understand fighting for someone you love.” Her eyes, bright with tears, don’t leave his. “Please, let me fight with you for who you love.”  She drops her hand and the light goes out: out of her eyes, out of her fingers. “Someone has to win; right?”

Steve swallows and smiles; a small one, but unforced. He takes her hand. “Okay.” He can’t see her yet, as an adult. But she’s right. She’s not a child. He’s asked a lot of her, but only on his own terms, defining what she is and isn’t ready for. “Okay.”

“So,” Sam says. He’s been watching with rapt interest. “What is your idea?”

“Well, it’s not brilliant,” Wanda starts. “But what if we wake him and I ask if I can look around. Locate the words, maybe _why_ they are trigger words. And then...what if we combined the things you’ve been thinking about with what I can do?”

“What if looking at them triggers their response?” Steve asks.

“We watched that footage,” Sam says. “It seemed that the words worked when used consecutively, together. One at a time might be okay?”

“We’d have to ask him,” Steve says.

“Steve, I wouldn’t do any of this without his permission.” Wanda fiddles with the cover of a book. “I’ve done too much harm with this...gift. Power. I’ve been in other’s minds without consent. I won’t ever do that again. I can’t.”

He squeezes her free hand, which he’s still holding.

“So, what methods here do we use then? How do we know how to plan ahead?”

“I think Wanda is on to something. The doctor mentioned that EMDR could be a good step, or CBT. I guess it depends on how they’re embedded. Also, going forward understanding that it’s not just about the words.”

“But they are why he went under,” Steve insists.

Sam sighs, perhaps less patiently. “We’ve been over this man.”

“I know.” Steve scrubs his forehead. He’s not unaware of his tendency to be single-minded and stubborn. It’s rare that he backs down, because he’s usually right. This time, he knows Sam is. Why he’s so resistant to the idea that Bucky will need help beyond this...perhaps it’s just that Steve wants a quick, easy, one-time fix for Bucky.

“Trauma requires complex healing and help,” Sam says. Wanda looks at him; this time she squeezes her fingers. Steve isn’t sure why, or why Sam looks at him like he does.

“I get it. I know. I want Bucky to have all the help he needs, I swear.”

Sam opens his mouth, but Wanda interrupts. “That’s good Steve.” She shoots Sam a look when he sighs: something Steve can’t read. He doesn’t have the energy for it, not for any of this. He can’t fix Bucky alone, he knows. Sam knows more about this than he, and he has to let go of his instinct to control the situation.

“Alright. Let’s get a plan together then. Let’s call for Nat and T’Challa.”


	12. Chapter 12

Steve doesn’t expect to sleep at all the night before they wake Bucky. He watches the sunset, still and alone, then marks the darkness by minutes for hours. When his eyes begin to droop, he strips and crawls into bed, expecting his mind to come awake with anxiety.

Instead, he drops deep and hard into sleep. Into dreams of Bucky.

The sun rises, and with it, Steve. When he opens his eyes, it’s to full light and a body more rested than it has been. The memory of Bucky in dreams is on his skin, in his bones. Today, he will see Bucky again. Touch him, if he can. Steve thinks of hugging Bucky, of the way he smells; his body, somehow, responds to the most innocent wish. Rather than will it away, or waste a moment on confusion or shame, Steve takes himself in hand. He strokes slowly and lingers on the smallest tactile memories he has. The texture of Bucky’s hair, tangled, and the way he would lean into Steve’s touch as he pulled it into a pony tail. The way he has always smelled just like Buck. Like home. A life before war. Comfort during the war; even under dirt and grime and the rank smell of fear, Bucky has always smelled uniquely like himself.

Steve pictures himself laying a kiss behind Bucky’s ear and inhaling him. The way his hair would feel under his lips, how heavy Bucky would be on top of him. Steve strokes faster, takes the time to cup the head of his dick and comes, quiet and shockingly bright, all over himself.

~*~

As it turns out, Bucky is too agitated when he comes too for Steve to even see him. It’s okay though – that’s what Steve tells himself as he watches through the protective glass. Bucky isn’t violent. Initially he’s disoriented, as they expected. What silently breaks Steve though, is when Bucky melts from confusion onto compliance. When he watches the techs without speaking. Lays on the examination table without being asked; opens his mouth and then...leaves. Steve can tell from the line of his muscles, from the slump of his body. Sam sees it too. “He’s disassociating,” Sam mutters.

Bucky must be trained for something in particular, post-cryo, that they can’t guess at. And when it doesn’t happen, he begins to move. Twitching; it looks to Steve like he’s trying to keep himself still but can’t. Bucky’s face pulls into a frown, and then a grimace. The monitors in the room – high tech that can read him the way Jarvis would – begin to pick up spikes in heart rate. A rise in blood pressure.

Steve puts his hand on the glass.

“I have to go in. He’ll know me,” he says.

“No,” Sam says. “I don’t think that’s a good idea Steve. He associates this moment with something; I don’t think you should be a part of that.”

“Isn’t the point that we’re changing things?” Steve shrugs Sam’s hand off of his arm. “Re-training his reactions?.” The words are bitter on his tongue. They describe the treatment of an animal. The idea of training Bucky cuts against his insides.

“I don’t think he’s present enough Steve. When he’s here: when he’s able to take in his surroundings-”

“Sam,” Steve watches as Bucky begins to hyperventilate. Dr. Giavalvo has been speaking to him. Gently bringing him back, Steve supposes. “Let me in.” He moves to the door. Sam has a hold on his arm again, laughably, as if he could hold Steve back.

“Steve.” Sam puts all the authority he can in his voice. “Stop.”

“Your friend is right,” T’Challa speaks up from the corner of the observation room, where he’s been tucked silently. “You must think of what is best for him.”

“I am, I know-”

“You know a man who no longer exists,” T’Challa says. There is a kindness to the hard words, as if he’s softening their edges on purpose. “I know we will work to recover what we can. But this – this is a process you’ve never been here for.”

Steve slumps against the wall Sam has him pinned against.

“Steve, you don’t want to hear this. But I think you should leave.”

“What?”               

“This is not good for you man. You...I can tell.” Sam speaks volumes with his eyes. Steve feels stripped and impotent.  

Steve closes his eyes. He pushes Sam away, as gently as he can. Without acknowledging either of them, he turns to leave the room, ignoring that pull in his stomach, the part of himself that is inexorably tied to the man behind glass. The fear coiling in him; the anxiety and distress are huge. Steve can’t tell if these feelings are his or Bucky’s, but he does know he cannot fall apart here, in front of Sam and T’Challa. Not if they’re going to trust him to participate in Bucky’s recovery.

~*~

Sam comes to him at dusk. Wanda had come in at some point. Steve didn’t bother to look at the clock. When she put her hands on his arms, it was a question. When he closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against her forearm, for the most fleeting moment, it was permission. Wanda gives him the best memories. She touches something in him that remembers calm. Not even the times he was happiest. Not the brightest moments of his life: falling in love with Peggy or Coney Island with Bucky. Memories of the kind of contentedness one takes for granted until it’s been snatched away. She helps him remember himself, before the war. Drawing at their rickety kitchen table; sunlight just right behind him. Bucky, on a rare day off, reading some pulp novel Steve won’t ever remember the name of.

Wanda leaves when Sam comes in; her lips press against his head. It’s been so long since he’s let someone new this close. He’s nothing but bones and a ragged heart, held together by string and splintering will. For the first time since he’s come from the ice, Steve knows he must lean on them too. That Sam and Wanda, that Nat and even T’Challa, are holding him together in their way.

“Can I go see him?” Steve asks. Sam crosses in front of him, leans against the wall by the window.

“He’s been sedated. Dr. Giavalvo managed to bring him present. But he was still agitated. Having trouble with time; with who he is and where he is.”

“How can he figure it out if you drug him?”

“He asked for it. It’s a light sedative. He’s adjusting.”

“You still think I won’t be helpful?”

“I-” Sam looks away. “I don’t know. I... _we_. We’re thinking of you too.”

“Sam,” Steve says. The warning tone he attempts falls flat.

“Steve. Please. You gotta think of yourself too. This isn’t a race. This won’t be fast or easy. If you wanna be here for him, you have to be _here_.”

“Can-” Steve clears his throat, steels his voice. “I want to see him tomorrow.”

Sam levels him with a single look. “Yeah, man. Of course.”

~*~

When Steve rolls out of bed, his body is stiff from a sleepless night, wound too tight, jittering with anticipation and adrenaline and nerves. He makes himself linger in the shower. Dress with utmost care, even if his clothes are casual. Walks to breakfast at a devastatingly sedate pace. Step by step he’d planned the appearance of calm, a good faith show that will demonstrate to Sam and T’Challa – hell, to them all – that he can handle this. They can’t keep him from Bucky. Thus far, nothing short of death has. But they’ll try. They’ll make it more difficult. And Sam knows more about these things. Steve doesn’t much care if this is or isn’t good for him, but he does care if it is for Bucky. But he wants to see him, to be sure. To let Bucky tell him, or show him, a sign of what Steve ought to do.

He drinks his coffee, dark and bitter, and waits for the others to wake up. T’Challa comes first, with Dr. Giavalvo.

“Would you like an update now, or will you want to wait for your team?” T’Challa asks. He sits easily, hitching his trousers as he crosses his legs.

Steve doesn’t even have to think. “Now.” He doesn’t need an audience. He doesn’t need them, watching, reading a situation they’ll never really understand, because they only know Steve on the surface. Bucky is a page in a history book, the Winter Soldier too fresh in everyone’s mind but his. Maybe he’ll listen, later. Take their advice into consideration. This moment is one for just them; because his true north is Bucky, and if there’s only one thing in his life Steve trusts, it’s between the two of them.

“Stay for a moment,” Dr. Giavalvo says. Steve pretends to settle back into the chair he was about to get out of. “We have a few people with him now. He’s calm and alert.”

“Still sedated?”

“No. He asked for a mild sedative in a lucid moment. As he became more aware of who he is and where he is, we dialed it back. He’s been off for a few hours now.”

“And he is aware of where he is? What we’re doing?”

“Yes. His ability to recalibrate to situations is interesting and surprising.” Dr. Giavalvo says.

Of course the Asset was an asset for these reasons. They wouldn’t have wanted to waste a large amount of time pulling him together to send him on missions.

“He asked about the plan,” T’Challa says.

“Oh?”

“We had your friend Sam talk to him, through the window.”

Steve closes his eyes and turns his face toward the rising sun, irritated that he hadn’t been there. “Why wasn’t I brought in? I should have been.”

“Mr. Wilson happened to be there. Your friend recognized him. They spoke very briefly.”

“He asked for you,” T’Challa says. Steve detects kindness in the words that rub him the wrong way. He’s not a child to be placated dammit.

“He has a rudimentary understanding of the plan, but asked that both you and Wanda be there to discuss it in depth.” Dr. Giavalvo explains.

“I want to go see him now.” Steve doesn’t try to temper his impatience. He holds back a demand that he see Bucky alone first. It’s been made clear here that Cap is not in charge. They won’t let him take point. He’s been the leader of one group of soldiers after another; going into a fight and being taken down from that position leaves him a complicated mess of relieved and resentful. Powerlessness is a fear Steve tastes in dreams, often. It sits, alive and too real, right now.

By virtue of his friends being slow or kind (Steve doesn’t much care which), neither Sam or Wanda are in the medical bay when he arrives. Dr. Giavalvo opens the door for him silently – perhaps a noise an unenhanced person might not hear, but Steve has no fear he’ll startle Bucky. He’s dressed in white – a white tank top and white scrub pants. His hair is down, tangled in the back. He’s at the window, watching the city below. Steve’s preferred the side of T’Challa’s palace his rooms are on. The lush trees and breath stealing sunsets, the stars and the strange birds. Here, the city spreads below the windows. It’s shocking in color, beautiful, unusual and normally Steve would itch to draw it. He’s been too empty, for a while, to really want to draw anything new.

Bucky doesn’t move when Steve walks toward him, but when he comes to the window Bucky shifts. They don’t speak for a while; Bucky’s body rests against his, so warm and real, heavy and trusting. _Fuck_ , the trust in the touch breaks Steve, a little. He puts his nose against Bucky’s temple. Everything he’s been pushing down; the dreams and the fantasy, the truth of Bucky’s body come roaring through him until Steve is crackling with desire to keep touching. He orders himself to get it together, to get his body under control. If there is a less inappropriate time and place to have this reaction, Steve can’t think of one.

Steve is happy not to speak as long as Bucky doesn’t. And it’s a nice while before he does. Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s waist and they watch the machinations of the city, breaths slowing and coming to identical rhythms. Bucky moves away with a look Steve isn’t sure of just moments before Dr. Giavalvo escorts Sam and Wanda into the room. Bucky inclines his head in greeting.

“We doing this here?” Steve gestures at the room, indicating a lack of seating space. Briefing while standing around a room with a gurney and cryo chamber isn’t high on his list of how things should go.

“We can head to the situation room, if Bucky is comfortable?” Sam says. He waits for Bucky to nod. Neither of them look at Steve. It’s good. Steve’s been worried; Bucky and Sam fought together when they were working to get to Siberia, but the tension between them had been laughable. Steve hasn’t the patience or humor for that kind of thing right now.

“This way then,” Dr. Giavalvo leads them through a maze of corridors. Bucky walks next to him, their hands brushing every now and then. Steve makes a concerted effort not to grab his hand. Bucky’s been a ghost; here and not, flickering around the edges of Steve’s life, ever since he failed to catch him on that train. Every time he lets go, Steve knows the keen fear that it’ll be the last. Every time, it feels like the last. Serum or not, Steve only has so much strength for heartbreak. He’s not reached his limit, but he’s not delusional. It’s there, somewhere.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam’s helpfully put together a briefing on the different forms of therapy they are considering. Steve is familiar enough with it all that he doesn’t even glance at his folder. Wanda is the first to speak up, as they’ve agreed to.

“James,” she begins. “Do you know the extent of my powers?”

“Please, call me Bucky.” Bucky’s eyes are everywhere, landing briefly on faces but also checking the room. They linger on the security camera tucked up into the northeast corner. “And no. I have an idea though.”

“You know that I can see into people’s minds?”

“You can control them.”

“No. Not like you’re thinking,” Sam says. “She can give people visions, for example. Mess with their minds.”

“ _Sam_.” Steve can’t temper the sharpness of his rebuke. The last thing they need is to scare Bucky away from what could help him.

“Steve, he should be fully informed, we agreed—“

“It’s fine,” Bucky interrupts. “Steve, it’s okay. I want to know these things. Please,” he looks to Wanda, “continue.”

“I will be honest,” Wanda says. Her eyes are on her hands, splayed flat on the table. “I have used my powers for bad reasons in the past – I try to atone. I will continue to for as long as I can.”

“I understand that feeling,” Bucky says. His smirk hurts Steve. How is he taking this so lightly?

“Well, what we were thinking is, that with your permission, I could look. In your mind. To see what happens when the trigger words are spoken, to see what they are rooted in.”

“That’s a hell of a risk sweetheart,” Bucky says. Tension rolls from his body.

“We thought we would do them one at a time,” Steve says. “When we watched that video back, from the Raft, it seemed like they work together in some way,”

“No.” Bucky’s eyes burn bright. “Not always. Some work for particular responses. Stand down. Reset. That sort of thing.”

“Do you know which words do what?” Sam asks.

“No idea,” Bucky says. “Part of that programming is that they fuck with my memory.”

“Okay,” Steve says. He takes a breath, trying to contain his despair. This was their only real plan.

“Hear us out,” Sam says, shooting Steve a look. Steve looks away. “If you are willing, we could have security protocols in place. One word at a time. Wanda will report to us what she sees. We can form a plan then, using one or multiple forms of therapy outlined in your briefing. CBT, EMDR, psychotherapy, whatever.”

“In Berlin, the first word they used: you reacted, but not violently. Would you be willing to test this out, see if what we are trying here might work on that one?”

Bucky fiddles with the folder in front of him. He’s bent back the outer bottom corner, working it back and forth. “Alright.”

Sam sighs and sits back.

“Let me read up, first, though.” Bucky amends. “Perhaps later, before we begin, we could test the girl’s ability on me. In a positive way.”

Wanda bites her lip. Probably holding back a reminder that she’s not a child. To Bucky though, who doesn’t know her, of course she is. Her youth alone qualifies her. They’ll be getting to know each other though. Bucky will learn.

“Who will be doing the therapy?”

“For now, Dr. Giavalvo has been our point person. There’s a list of therapists in the briefing that we looked at. Backgrounds. Specialties. Everything we could dig up on them.”

“It won’t be him?” Bucky jerks his head in Sam’s direction.

“I’m not exactly trained in all of these,” Sam says. “Also, we didn’t know if you’d be comfortable with me.”

“More than with some stranger,” Bucky says. Growls really. Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “Dr. G seems okay. But I don’t want it to be just her.”

“You’d rather have us with you?” Steve asks

“Him?” Bucky nods toward Sam. “Yeah.”

 _Him_. Not them. Not _them_?

“Steve,” Sam says, quiet and gentle. Steve hates that tone. When Sam uses it, Steve understands viscerally how Wanda must feel around them. Bucky tilts his head, considering Steve.

“We should talk,” he says. “Later.”

Steve realizes too late he’s been systematically shredding the corner of his own folder.

“Great.” Steve’s a pro at faking it. Perhaps it’s been harder lately – he’s so tired. But with all these eyes on him, the fucking pity coming off of everyone but Bucky, he’ll fucking pretend until he dies of it.

~*~

Once again, a spread of food has been set out in Steve’s rooms. T’Challa’s pity offer perhaps: all of his favorite foods are there. He has no idea how they know what his favorite foods are, but he could care less. It’s all ashes in his mouth. Fuel that’s necessary because after a while hunger hurts and he needs to eat quite a bit to keep it at bay.

Bucky picks at the selection of food they’ve provided for him. The assumption that Bucky’ll come here both rankles and comforts Steve. Steve’s aware that he’s not always self-aware – something Sam’s hammered home plenty of times, but even he realizes that he’s on the edge of irrationality. His temper is hair trigger right now; he knows he needs to talk things through with Bucky, but wishes he could have pounded the hell out of some punching bags first. Tired himself out for at least five minutes by lifting to his limits. Instead, he settles down at a table loaded with too much food, pretends to enjoy it, and waits for Bucky to begin rationalizing the worst idea Steve’s heard of.

“I know you want to be there,” Bucky begins. His smile is a ghost, a memory of what it used to be. “But it’s best for both of us if you’re not. You have to know that.”

“I don’t, actually.” Steve says.

“Okay, _Captain_ , stand down.” Bucky leans forward. “I’m talking to Steve here. I don’t need the arbiter of Truth, Justice and Freedom fucking around here.”

“I’m sorry, but what the hell are you even talking about Buck?”

“You think you know what’s right. You know the way. And you’ll lead everyone into and through it.” Bucky says. “You got the will. I’ve known that our whole lives. That’s what makes Captain America so special. But he can’t fix everything.”

“I know that,” Steve says.

“You’re fucked up Steve,” Bucky says. It’s blunt enough to steal Steve’s breath. “You don’t need to add my shit to yours when it’s obvious-”

“Shut up,” Steve says. He closes his eyes. “Shut up, you don’t – how could you even.”

“You were the first thing I really remembered, Steve,” Bucky says. He gets up and sits next to Steve. “You, before the serum. I don’t remember all of the details. But...it’s like I remember the heart of you. Who you were. It’s a feeling...not a concrete memory.”

“So?”

“So I can feel it.”

 Steve shrugs, as if he could push away from Bucky’s words.

“This...what I’m going to do. What I have to do. I cannot let it break you, Steve. And...I don’t think I could really do it, with you there. I can’t...I know, I know now that I have to protect you.”

 “That’s not your job,” Steve says. “I don’t need protecting Buck.”

“The _fuck_ it’s not. That’s what we do, right? Or what we did? Look out for each other?” Bucky takes a breath and takes Steve’s hand. Steve laces their fingers together on a risk. They didn’t do this; they never touched like this, before. Steve knows how tenuous and fragile all of this is. While Bucky was gone in cryo, Steve ached for him in new ways that both scared and thrilled him. He’ll take anything he can now. Anything Bucky will give him, so that at the very least, if he loses Bucky again, he won’t have as many regrets to carry.

“Steve,” Bucky says. The frown lines on his face age him. Steve wishes he could smooth them out with his thumb. “I hate to do this, but I mean it. You _have_ to trust that I mean this.”

“Okay?”

“ _I_ can’t have you there. It’s not what’s best for me.”

 Steve untangles their fingers and pushes away from the table. Paces in front of the sofa and then goes to stand by the window. A fury, rich and frightening, sits coiled inside like a viper. He wants to lash out; there’s a poison in him now, and if he doesn’t bite it back, he knows he’ll spread it.

“Do you need me to leave?” Bucky asks. Steve shakes his head without looking back. As angry as he is, he won’t turn Bucky away. Ever.

 “Give me a bit,” he says. “Stay, though. Please.”

 “Okay. I am going to go shower then.”

“Yeah,” Steve responds, an afterthought, words a reflex, because he’s elsewhere completely.


	14. Chapter 14

After his shower, Bucky settles in the living room with a book. Steve wants to find it endearing. Or comforting. He wants to sit on the couch too, just to be near him. But he’s still upset.

“I think I have to go burn off some energy,” he finally says.

“You gonna go down to the gym?” Bucky asks. He turns a page and doesn’t look up.

“Yeah,” Steve says. He doesn’t ask Bucky to come. He wouldn’t object, exactly, but he’s not ready to extend that invitation.

“I’ll stay up here, unless you need me orbiting you some more,” Bucky says. _Ouch_. Steve pauses halfway toward his room.

“Buck-” Bucky’s shoulders are tense, set higher than usual.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, you’re right. I asked you to stay and now I’m leaving.”

“Really, Steve. Don’t worry about it. I know I can leave if I want. And I know you’re angry right now. That’s fine. We can talk later.”

Steve assumes this is a dismissal. The implication that he’s not in the frame of mind to talk, or that there’s more to talk about is heavy. Bucky’s not wrong though; Steve with his dander up isn’t known for listening first and fighting second. So he dresses for the gym and then goes to destroy some punching bags. He works in silence, the gym empty. The silence is cavernous. Steve works to hit hard enough to cover the angry clamor in his head, how fucking helpless he feels. Bucky’s comment about being a satellite rankles the more he thinks about it, because for years, Steve’s revolved and arranged his whole life around Bucky in some way. He finally has Bucky, and finally has a taste of hope, and Bucky’s cut him off.

The bag splits and goes flying, hitting the wall behind it with a hollow thud. He’s out of bags; his breath is heaving and he’s drenched in sweat. He’s exhausted and buzzing at the same time. Steve leans against the wall and kind of slides down, boneless.

“Hey.”

Steve startles at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. It’s tacky, sweat long since dried. “You okay?” It’s Nat, geared out for exercise as well.

“Fine,” Steve says. He’s only loosely responding. Vaguely in his body. How long has he been sitting here?

“Barnes talked to you about not having you there, huh?” Nat sits easily, not quite touching him, which he appreciates.

“How do you know? You weren’t even there.” They’d all decided it might be best for Natasha to observe and help in a background capacity; Natasha’s confession that she knew more about Bucky – that they had a history – had fucked with Steve for days. Pushing it out of his mind has been a struggle, but Nat is a friend. He thinks. He doesn’t like being lied to ‘for his own good’ but Natasha is who she is. Steve should know better by now, how much trust to extend.

“I didn’t,” she says. Steve hates how even her voice is, how easy and remote she can make herself, when he’s a mess of sharp words bottled up and skin that prickles with dis-ease. “I just assumed he would. The two of you...you’re too tangled. And he seems to have a slightly better grasp on concepts of self-help and wellness at this moment.”

Steve shakes his head and fists his hands, hard. They’re wrapped and he can’t feel the sharp dig of fingernails through it.

“You think I’m a mess too?”

“Steve,” she says. Her eyes are too calm on his, not offended by the accusatory tone. But they’re also kind.

“I’ve gotten myself this far, you know. Alone. I’m fine. Bucky – Bucky’s been through....” he exhales through his nose. “ _I kn_ _ow_ , okay? I know that he gets to call the shots. After 70 years of torture. Of what he went through. I’ll give him anything he asks. But dammit Natasha. Don’t I get to feel something too?”

“Of course you do Steve.” Natasha puts a hand on his arm. “We want you to.”

“We?”

“I mean me.” She shakes back her hair. It’s still long, falling like fire down her back.

Steve laughs; knows the sarcastic edge to it is rude, but doesn’t care. “No you don’t.”

She takes a breath. “You’re right. I’m not the only one who cares about your well-being.”

“You guys coming up with a treatment plan for me too?”

“No.” He looks away. “I mean it Steve. I haven’t talked to Wilson about it at all. But we’re not blind. We’ve all seen it; we _care_.”

Steve pushes up, stands and turns away, naked despite his clothes. Stripped bare against his will.

“Steve,” Natasha says, and now she sounds like his friend. Like the woman he grew close to in the years they’ve worked together training others at the Avengers Academy, through taking down Hydra; helping him track Bucky when she could.

“We’ll talk later Nat.” He touches the top of her head; a fleeting brush of his fingertips against her hair, and ignores her sigh. By the time he’s back up at his apartment, he’s unwrapped his hands, holding the tape balled in one fist. Squeezing it rhythmically. Bucky is still on the couch; dozing with the book propped on his chest. Fondness washes through Steve. Or perhaps something more; something sharper and sweeter, more powerful. Steve wants to wake him by running his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Kissing the bridge of his nose.

Instead, he throws out the tape and turns the shower water as hot as he can stand. The man in the mirror is hollow. A shell with a face others recognize, that others read. Project onto.

He turns off the lights and stands in the water for far too long.

**~*~**

“Steve?”

Steve jerks, smashing his elbow into the wall of the shower. He can’t see, but he thinks he may have cracked the tile. _Fuck_.

“Yeah Buck?”

“You’ve been in here a while, you alright?” Bucky’s in the room with him, refraining from mentioning the dark.

“Yeah. Just enjoying limitless hot water.”

“Catching up on the luxuries of the twenty first century?”

“Well, I hear they had them in the twentieth too,” Steve says around a smile. “Don’t worry about me Buck. I’ll come out now.”

“Okay.” Bucky flicks the light on as he leaves. Steve squints and adjusts to the light. He’s light headed and exhausted.

Bucky’s laid clean clothes for him on the countertop. They’re comfortable, soft fabrics that are lightweight. Steve’s muscles are like molasses. He avoids the mirror. Bucky’s not in the kitchen or living room; Steve wanders onto the balcony but he’s not their either. Rather, he finds Bucky in his bed with the same novel he’d had on the couch.

“We alright?” Bucky asks. He doesn’t move but Steve can tell Bucky’s not sure of his welcome. Steve’s almost too wrung out to enjoy the fact that Bucky wants to be here with him.

“Of course Buck. Always.”

“Even when I piss you off?” Bucky watches with his sharp eyes as Steve crawls into bed, as his muscles relax into the mattress.

“When has that ever stopped either of us?” Steve mumbles, already half asleep. Bucky’s hand rests on his head, playing with his hair as Steve slides into sleep. Steve doesn’t hear Bucky’s response, though come morning when he wakes alone, he wishes he had. His hand slips under the covers, absorbing the lingering heat. Bucky was here. Bucky _is_ here.

Steve closes his eyes. Most days he wakes up anxious to move. Running through the buzzing in his brain and body. Feeding the machine. Today, yesterday’s exhaustion has become a sweet lethargy.

“Hey,” Bucky sits on the bed. Steve pries his eyes open. “I’m off.”

“You guys starting today?” Steve tries to muster resentment. Nothing comes.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s head is tilted, examining him. Steve resists the urge to roll away from the look. “You gonna go for a run?”

“No. Sleep more.” Steve buries his face in the pillow. Bucky lingers a moment, then leaves quietly. Once the door clicks shut, Steve scoots to the side of the bed Bucky slept on. Inhales Bucky’s lingering scent on the pillow. Forces himself to ignore that this might be slightly creepy behavior, because it helps. He’s calmer now. Getting out of bed seems insurmountable. So he doesn’t.

~*~

“Steve.”

Steve wakes to a whisper, to a weight on the bed that makes him roll toward it. It’s Bucky. The sun spills bright and hot into the room, but he’s pale. Steve touches his forehead to find it clammy.

“Y’allright?” he slurs.

“I’ll get there,” Bucky whispers. He’s shaking.

“Wanna-”

“No.” Bucky inches closer, and so Steve puts his arm around Bucky and pulls him close. “Tight,” Bucky says. Steve tightens his hold, and throws a leg over Bucky’s. The trembling increases, enough so that Steve worries he’s making it worse. Only Bucky’s hand is curled so tight in the fabric of his shirt it’s on the verge of tearing, so Steve’s not about to let go. Bucky is utterly, terrifyingly silent as he falls apart. Eventually the tremors ease. Bucky’s breath slips into a deep rhythm Steve knows means sleep. He checks the time – it’s early afternoon. Steve hasn’t slept that long since coming out of the ice.

That usual itch, the burn that makes him need to get up and move is finally there. Bucky is still curled up next to him; Steve would burn any way he’s made, to help Bucky. So he stays. Watches Bucky’s face as he sleeps and tries not to think of his dreams. Because in them, they aren’t just touching. It’s not just the surprise of desire that keeps Steve enthralled. It’s how deeply he wants to use every part of himself to love Bucky.

Bucky comes awake suddenly, with no transition to indicate he’s surfacing. His eyes open, immediately, disconcertingly alert.

“Heya,” Steve says.

“I fell asleep.” Bucky pulls out of Steve’s arms and stretches.

“Yeah,” Steve says. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say about Bucky’s state when he came back from...whatever he and Wanda and Sam had been doing. So he doesn’t.

Bucky stares at the wall for a bit before turning to Steve. His smile is small but so very real. So much more the smile of a man who existed in the past. “I think this will work, Steve.”

“Yeah?” Steve sits up too.

“It’ll be awful. It’s going to get harder. But we made progress, I think.”

“Buck that’s-” Steve clears his throat, “that’s amazing.”

Steve swings his legs out of bed, absolutely unable to sit still any longer.

“Ready to move now?” Bucky’s grin is lopsided, almost rakish. He flops back on the bed, arm spread. Steve has to look away. Heat spreads like wildfire through him. Bucky’s still smiling when he looks back, convinced he’s gathered his will. His smile is a tease; a single raised brow hinting at intention. Steve nods and moves to get workout gear together; he’s reading Bucky wrong is all.

“Want to come?”

“Why not?” Bucky sighs and sits back up. Steve knows his smile is too tight; it can’t be helped. His whole body feels agonizingly tight.

He sets a hard pace from the start. The city offers a maze of streets that rise and fall; it’s complex and loud and colorful and a challenge. Bucky stays behind him for the most part, content to follow. Steve’s had more time to learn his way. Steve wipes sweat off his forehead before it drips into his eyes and imagines Bucky, sweating and red faced. Imagines him so, spread on his sheets like before, only with a whole lot less clothing between them. Shakes his head and works to push the image away. Suddenly, the sound of Bucky's footfalls falls off.

He’s a few paces back when Steve turns, leaning against a wall. He jogs back over. Resolutely refuses to track the rivulets of sweat, tracing from Bucky’s temple and down his throat.

“What are you running from, Steve?” Bucky says, panting and direct.

“I dunno,” Steve surprises himself by saying. “I’m always running from something.” It’s not the total truth, but it’s closer to any truth he’d usually tell.

“You sure?” Bucky’s eyes are on Steve’s mouth now. He can’t be – Steve’s got to be imagining it though, right? The way Bucky’s eyes feel on him. His smile; a look Steve remembers from when Bucky would take a girl dancing. Bucky knew how to use his face, his sharp beauty and charm. Right now, Steve wonders if wishful thinking is coloring this moment. His legs are jelly. Bucky’s lips would taste like salt, like the residue of sweat. They’d be soft too; Steve can tell from looking.

“Let’s go back,” Bucky says after the silence has dragged from charged into uncomfortable. “We’ve done about nine miles. It’s nine back.”

“Alright,” Steve says. He’ll agree to anything right now if it means breaking out of this moment. He spends nine miles chastising himself for reading into the exchange. Reminding himself that Bucky’s had a rough day; that desire for him is tantamount to violation, when he’s this vulnerable. That he has no right to ask or want more from Bucky when he’s so goddamn lucky to have him in the first place.


	15. Chapter 15

They settle into a routine of sorts. Steve goes for a run while Bucky goes to work with Wanda and Sam and Dr. Giavalvo. Bucky continues to have faith in the process. Progress is slow, but it’s there. Sam never discusses what they’re doing with Steve, even when Steve hints about it. Wanda smiles and offers comfort; Steve doesn’t even try with her. It feels unfair. Natasha leaves within the first two days. Avoiding Bucky is a challenge and apparently she’s needed elsewhere though she can’t tell them for what. Steve has no idea if she’s managed to get back into Tony’s good graces, if she’s still playing both sides and going along with the Accords. Steve has no room for the conversation; everything seems hyper focused in his life, and Bucky is the center of it.

The hardest part is Bucky himself. Steve’s not sure if Bucky is trying to tease him to death. If he’s offering something. If Steve just wants to read Bucky’s behavior as such. Bucky is stunning temptation. He’s tactile and always close when they’re in Steve’s apartment. Bucky had totally given up on the pretense of having his own rooms; Steve loves that he never asked, but just moved on in. T’Challa’s people move Bucky’s few possessions into Steve’s rooms without any conversation.

“What’s up Buck?” Steve’s just sat down to watch the world news when Bucky sits next to him. Right next to him. He’d taken an hour long shower after therapy, followed Steve around the kitchen as Steve had prepared a midmorning snack for them both, and is now approximately one centimeter from snuggling Steve.

“Nothing,” Bucky says. He doesn’t look at Steve. “Why do you torture yourself?” He gestures at the television.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Steve says. He leans into Bucky – proven to be the right choice when Bucky relaxes into the touch. Steve hadn’t realized how tense Bucky was.

“You watch the news and agonize over all the things you can’t be doing right now.”

“I don’t know that I—I don’t think-”

“I’m sorry Steve,” Bucky says. He puts his head on Steve’s shoulder and whispers the apology into the fabric of his shirt.

“For what?” Steve puts his arm around Bucky. Every day, he realizes, after therapy, it seems that Bucky is like this. Steve holds back a laugh. He’s so dumb, how did he not see this before?

“You gave it up, for me. And-”

“Don’t you dare tell me you aren’t worth it Bucky.” Steve warns. He pulls Bucky closer. He smells so good. His hair is still damp from his shower and is getting the fabric of Steve’s shirt wet. Bucky’s face is now buried in Steve’s neck, and when he speaks, Steve absolutely cannot control the shiver it sends through him.

“I’m still sorry.”

Steve clears his throat.

“Mm,” Bucky says, lips brushing the skin under his ear “You okay Stevie?”

 _God, please help_. Steve thinks of everything he can to try to control his very physical reaction to Bucky’s touch. His shorts won’t help hide a thing.

Here’s the thing: Steve, despite limited sexual experience with other people, wants it desperately. He’s never had an issue with fantasy. He’s never felt bad about it. He’s imaginative, and pretty great at coming up with complex scenarios; _lord_ the things he wanted to do to Peggy. It’s not that Steve doesn’t want sex, or hasn’t. It was more that he never really wanted to make it real until he met Peggy. Until he’d felt that connection with her, an electric snap into reality. Love.

And now, somehow, Bucky has prodded this part of him into wakefulness. Steve wants him so much it hurts. He’s not convinced he’s doing a great job of hiding it. But Bucky obviously wants comfort when he’s coming back from therapy, which makes wanting him right now downright wrong.

_Right?_

Bucky sighs and Steve reads the irritation in it clear as day.

“Something wrong?”

“Yes.” Bucky sits up to look at him. “ _You_.”

“What?”

“Steve, do you want me?”

Steve is leveled by the honesty, shamed by the blush that gives him away, and terrified because he doesn’t want to lie.

“I’m so sorry Buck.” Steve pulls his arm back. “I—I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I know this is wrong-”

“You think wanting a man is wrong?” Bucky spaces his words carefully.

“No, of course not.” Steve wrestles the indignation down.

“So just me?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I-” Steve stands.

“How long has this been going on?” Bucky asks, looking up at him. He’s so calm; unnervingly calm.

“Just...the last few months? I don’t know. I don’t...it’s not right, Buck. You have so much going on. You’re dealing with all of this trauma. I won’t take advantage.”

Bucky shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair. “ _God_ , spare me your internal moral compass crap.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you think you know best _all the fucking time_. It’s irritating as hell.”

“Then why the-”

“God forbid you stop to ask people what _they_ think or want and listen. That you stop to let them tell you what’s best for them.”

This stops Steve short. “What—Buck. I wasn’t trying to do that.”

Bucky stands; Steve automatically takes a step back to give him space, but Bucky snags his hand and stops him. “Steve. I want you. I want you with me. I want you to touch me. I want something to remind me there are good things in the world; that I can have good things. I’ve _been_ wanting that.”

Steve has to reverse his train of thought so quickly he feels dazed by it.

“You want...comfort? From someone?”

“Steve,” Bucky says. His hand is warm on Steve’s face; he makes Steve look at him. “God you’re obtuse. I don’t want someone. I _want_ _you_.”

“Don’t take me wrong, Buck. This is a lot-”

Bucky steps back with a sigh. “I know. I...I’ve had more time, I think, to come to terms with it.”

“Because you could tell I wanted you?”

Bucky pauses; the wait between words challenges Steve’s ability to speak up. Bucky told him to listen. He’ll fucking listen.

“Yeah. Sure.” Bucky says finally. “Listen Steve, it’s alright if you don’t wanna – if this is too much. Just. Promise me we’ll be okay?”

“Shut up.” Steve wraps his fingers around Bucky’s wrist. “Don’t be a dummy. And no.”

“No?”

“It’s not too much. It’s – if you’re sure. Whatever-” he clears his throat. “You tell me what you want. And I will give it to you.”

“Stevie,” Bucky whispers. “I don’t want it like that. I don’t want you to think of it as giving to me. I want this to be about _us_.”

Steve swallows. Right now, with the air cleared of confusion but clouded by his own desire and Bucky’s admission, he wants to kiss him. Bucky’s stripping him bare with words. Making Steve think too much. Perhaps this is what Bucky needs too. After all the work and pain he’s putting himself through to get better. A space where they don’t need to think about anything but comfort or pleasure.

He looks at Bucky’s mouth, then up to his eyes; they’re dark and direct. Bucky smiles, just a little, and then crosses the line for them both; shows so clearly the courage and strength he possesses – so much more than Steve, who’s a mirage, smoke and mirrors, a show of bravery that’s really recklessness and stubbornness.

Bucky’s the one who is truly unafraid. Strong. Willing to risk. And his mouth – oh Lord. His mouth on Steve’s is beautiful.

Almost chaste and heartbreakingly tender, Steve lets Bucky kiss him as he wants; he breathes into in. Puts a hand around Bucky’s neck, careful to keep his touch light so that Bucky knows he can break out of it any time he wants. Bucky shudders and moves closer. Puts his hand on Steve’s waist. When he breaks away, his forehead is still against Steve’s. They breathe together; Steve is overcome by something. Something huge, too much. A sweep of feelings that leave him feeling flayed open, on the edge of tears and too needy. He squeezes his eyes shut. It’s been so long; so long since he’s had anyone this close. Bucky’s lips find his again; wet and open, an invitation. Steve takes it, runs his tongue just inside Bucky’s mouth.

And suddenly, Steve is so afraid. It builds in his core; it winds, insidious and unstoppable through his whole body until he’s shaking. Bucky pulls back, wipes a thumb under Steve’s eye. He’s mortified to find that he’s crying.

“Steve,” Bucky says. “ _Stevie_.” He pulls Steve closer, his arm tight around his waist. Kisses the apples of Steve’s cheeks where they are wet with tears. “You’re okay. It’s okay.” Steve buries his face in Bucky’s neck and fights to pull himself together. Right now, Steve has too much. He has Bucky; Bucky offering everything of himself. Everyone Steve has ever loved like this has been taken away from him. Steve’s lost everything more than once. Bucky is giving him the opportunity – giving them both the opportunity – to know everything about each other.

Steve thinks he might die if he loses this though. He’ll fade out, burnt to nothingness.

“Bucky, please,” Steve says into Bucky’s neck. He has no idea what he’s asking for. Bucky pulls him onto the couch, wraps himself around Steve as much as he can.

“I’m here,” Bucky says. He says it over and over as Steve collects himself. Steve is so wrung out, so exhausted by the fight, he can’t spare embarrassment that he’s so transparent. Instead, he lets it comfort him. That Bucky knows without him having to say the words.

“I ruined that moment, didn’t I?” Steve says after a while. They’re cramped up and angled all wrong on the couch, but Steve doesn’t want to pull away from Bucky.

“No,” Bucky says. “Never.”

“Buck,” Steve tries to relax his body, to let go of the tension. “I’m so tired.”

“I know,” Bucky kisses the top of his head. Steve doesn’t have to explain. He doesn’t have to articulate what he means: that he’s tired somewhere so deep he can’t name it. That he’s been holding on to something for so long that exhaustion lies deep in his bones. “Come on.” Bucky tugs Steve off the couch and prods him toward the bedroom. Lately, they’ve slept with Steve spooned up around Bucky, holding him as he’s fought through the comedown of therapy, calling up memories that fracture him.

Today Bucky lays flat and guides Steve’s head onto his shoulder, wrapping his arm around Steve. When Steve shifts to put his head against Bucky’s chest he doesn’t complain. Steve listens to the steady constancy of Bucky’s heart. Closes his eyes and counts the beats, a steady _he’s here, he’s here, he’s here_ thrumming through his mind to the same time. This proof of Bucky’s life, his vitality, is a metronome to which Steve comforts himself, which finally allows him to relax, his tight muscles unknotting. He slides into sleep with it, Bucky all around him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we earn our Explicit rating :D

“So, I am assuming you’re getting updates from him,” Sam says, nodding toward Bucky. Bucky doesn’t look up from the tray of fruits he’s methodically going through. He’s tasting one of every kind of fruit they’ve never seen. Up until this week, fruit has been hard for Bucky, with only particular fruits being okay to eat, but somehow they’ve worked through a trigger or memory that unlocked some food aversions. It’s kind of adorable, how single-minded he’s become about it.

“No,” Steve says. He’s been trying to respect Bucky’s privacy. He figures that if Bucky wanted him to know anything, he would tell him. It’s been agonizing.

“Oh,” Sam says, eyebrows jumping so high it’s almost comical.

“He doesn’t ask,” Bucky says, mouth full.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to?” Steve says.

“Steve you’re the nosiest fucker I ever met,” Bucky says. He wipes his mouth with the back of his fingers.

“Really?” Sam says, still comically shocked. “This is not the Steve Rogers I know.”

Steve bites back a sharp retort. It isn’t Sam’s fault that he’s worked hard to protect himself since the ice. That he’s had trouble letting people too close.

“I didn’t want to be pushy, okay,” Steve says. “Or set you back or anything. If you want to tell me anything, I want to hear it.”

Sam and Bucky wait a full thirty seconds to speak; even Steve is shocked by the vehemence in his voice.

“Sorry, I-”

“No, don’t apologize,” Sam says. Steve hopes he won’t bring up the times Steve has tried to get information out of him with hints.

“It’s fine. Thanks buddy.” Bucky says. He wipes his fingers on a napkin this time and sits back with a satisfied sigh.

Steve keeps his eyes to himself, keeps the sharp edges of his retort to himself. Ever since their kiss, and Steve falling apart like an idiot, Bucky’s been tiptoeing around him like Steve’s the one in a fragile mental state. As if Bucky’s not disappearing daily to have his mind picked apart. He hasn’t even sought comfort from Steve after his sessions. Instead he locks himself in the bathroom, taking obscenely long showers.

“Okay, well,” Sam clears his throat. “I’m just going to avoid the obvious and awkward tension right now, because that shit ruins breakfast for me real quick.”

“You were asking because you wanted Steve to know you’re leaving for a bit,” Bucky says. He’s blunt to the point of comedy sometimes – only Steve doesn’t find it funny, because moments like these, Bucky seems colder than he really is. Reading a room is trivial, taking others into account unnecessary.

“All right. Tension unavoidable then.” Sam sighs.

“You’re leaving?” Steve takes a breath and squeezes his fork.

“I want to consult with some other specialists on a new kind of therapy. But I can’t bring them here – Nat hasn’t cleared them for this level of security.”

“Does this mean you’ll be taking a break?”

“Yep,” Bucky says.

Relief sweeps through Steve. He knows he’s not the one fighting like Bucky, but it’s been wearing at him too. Constant worry, Bucky’s state when he comes home. Every morning when Bucky leaves, fear tears at him, razors in his stomach and throat, that today might be the day Bucky breaks. That he leaves. That he becomes the Winter Soldier once again.

“Now you boys can take a little vacation. Enjoy the city maybe.”

The thought of sight seeing is foreign enough to Steve to surprise him into silence. He’s never really gotten to go somewhere for pleasure. To enjoy its history or monuments – other than D.C – because he’s always been working, fighting, or gearing up for either.

~*~

“Buck,” Steve says that night. They’re watching the sun set. “You know I’m okay right?” The distance between them is making him crazy. Bucky sure was brave the other day, laying his cards down for Steve. It’s his turn.

“Are you?” Bucky gives him his lopsided smile, the one that makes Steve want to crawl into his lap, to map its shape with his tongue. Bucky’s skin is bathed in the orange glow of the sun; if Steve reached out, his fingers would find Bucky’s shoulder. Unfortunately they’re sitting side by side such that Steve can’t hold Bucky’s hand.

“I’m okay. But I could be better,” Steve says. He wants to enjoy Bucky; he wants the comfort of someone who knows him and he wants the thrill of being known in a new way, with someone safe.

“Can I help?”

“You could come over here,” Steve says, low and playful. At least, as playfully as he can.

Bucky cocks his head. “You sure about that champ?’”

“Bucky, if you’ve changed your mind, that’s okay. But if _you_ haven’t, _I_ haven’t, which means I need you to have been kissing me about two days ago.”

“C’mon then,” Bucky pulls Steve up. “These chairs aren’t really gonna work for this are they?”

“For what?” Steve says.

“For this, dummy.” Bucky runs a finger around and behind Steve’s ear and moves in, kissing him fast and hard and nothing like the last time. It’s wet and dirty from the start; it’s the filthiest promise. Steve groans into it. Tilts his head and lets; lets and _lets_ Bucky take what he wants. If he were shorter than Bucky the way he goes boneless would be nothing less than a swoon. He wants to sway into Bucky; to give his body over to Bucky’s care. To be pliant and utterly wrecked with pleasure. Bucky comes up on his toes; his hand around Steve’s waist. When he kisses Steve’s throat it’s electric: Steve hasn’t known presence in his own body like this in years and years.

“God, Stevie, I want to destroy you.” Bucky murmurs.

“Yes,” Steve says, voice faint and a little broken. His hands are everywhere they can be; in Bucky’s hair and on his shoulder, on his stomach, impatiently pushing his shirt up to get to his skin. “ _Please_.”

Bucky pulls away, smiling with his whole face. “Gotta admit, didn’t anticipate you being so desperate for it.”

“I- I can’t,” Steve says. He’ll be honest if asked, but doesn’t really want to risk Bucky slowing down or checking in with him like he might if he knew how inexperienced Steve is. But Bucky is making it impossible to think.

“Do this?” Bucky pulls away.

“Talk, you fucker,” Steve says, biting Bucky’s chin lightly. Bucky shivers and tilts his head, which Steve takes as instruction to do it some more, working his way down Bucky’s throat. He sucks kisses under his ear and shudders when Bucky’s breath breaks.

“Can we take this-”

“-bedroom?”

“ _Yes_.” Bucky tugs on Steve’s shirt, awkwardly trying to pull it up – with one hand and Steve’s fingers still under his shirt, testing his responses as he touches one of Bucky’s nipples lightly – it’s not really possible for Bucky to get it off. Steve strips it off himself, then roughly tugs Bucky’s up over his head too.

“Bed,” Bucky says, hoarsely. Pushes against Steve’s chest a little and follows so close he’s practically on Steve’s heels. Once there, Steve turns, pulls Bucky on top of him. Steve’s never had this; someone heavy and hot on top of him. It’s potent; Steve’s desire is so big it’s almost a frightening thing.

“Bucky,” Steve puts his hands on Bucky’s chest, pushing him away. “You’ll tell me if I do anything you don’t like, right?”

“Yeah, sure.” Bucky grins. “You?”

“I don’t know that there’s much I wouldn’t like.” It’s dangerously close to a confession of inexperience.

Bucky does the thing he does, that testing, examining look. Steve holds his breath, but thankfully Bucky doesn’t ask more questions. Instead, he grinds down against Steve with a wicked little smile, punching the breath right out of him. Steve is close to coming, which he refuses to do without even getting to see Bucky naked and aroused and under his palms.

“Take your pants off,” Steve says. He rolls Bucky over and tries to unbutton the pants for him. The button pops off.

“Say please,” Bucky says. His voice is dark and graveled and his eyes are half lidded. He pulls Steve’s hand away. Steve flushes.

“Please,” he whispers. Puts his mouth against Bucky’s belly. He’s been thinking of this, at night; of kissing Bucky everywhere. What it might be like to take Bucky into his mouth, to feel Bucky’s come on his hand, on his tongue, between his thighs.

“So good,” Bucky whispers, and runs his fingers through Steve’s hair. Steve is so broken by it, by the praise and permission. His dick throbs painfully.

“Shut up, shut up,” Steve says. He gets Bucky’s pants off in one hard tug. Steve knows what he wants; is desperately scared that if he doesn’t seize this moment, it could slip away. That with a pause, his lack of knowledge will become painfully aware.

If there’s anything Steve does consistently well, it’s jump straight into a situation blindly. So he doesn’t stop or pause or ask any more permission. Instead, he swallows Bucky down in one greedy movement.

“ _Ohmychrist_ ,” Bucky moans. “Jesus Stevie.”

Steve breathes through his nose and tries to keep himself from drooling everywhere. He sucks hard, trying to crack the code of Bucky’s breaths, to crack him open. To pull him apart the way Bucky does, the way just Bucky’s touch can. He cups Bucky’s balls; slides his hand up to stroke where he can’t get his mouth. He knows this is clumsy and he’s probably obviously new to this, but Bucky offers no complaints. Instead he spreads his knees farther apart, opening himself to Steve. He’s a banquet of salt and sweat and something primal and so very human. Steve pulls off and kisses the inside of Bucky’s thigh, swallowing excess spit, then licks up the shaft toward the head.

“This okay?” he can’t help but ask.

“Jesus, don’t stop,” Bucky says. Steve wants to smart-mouth him for taking the Lord’s name in vain, but it’s been years since either of them really believed anyway.

Steve doesn’t stop. Not even when Bucky moans that he’s about to come; not when he does, spunk hot and thick; not when he gags on it because there’s so much more than he anticipated. Not when Bucky’s done coming, throbbing slowing. Only when Bucky pushes his head slightly and shifts with discomfort. Steve kisses up Bucky’s belly; bites his chest and thinks of how much of Bucky’s body he’s skipped in a clumsy rush.

“Jeez Buck,” Steve’s voice is rough. He clears his throat. “I didn’t mean—I hope,”

“Please tell me you ain’t about to apologize.” Bucky’s eyes are closed and his chest still heaving, but his lips curl, his legs gone slack against the bed.

“I just wanna-”

Bucky’s eyes open; the blue of them swallowed by his pupils. “You’re perfect.” He rolls Steve onto his back. “That was – it’s been a long time, since anyone’s made me feel that good.” The confession obviously doesn’t come easy – it’s said in a small voice and Bucky’s eyes don’t quite meet his. But it’s _said_ , and that means a hell of a lot to Steve. Bucky’s taste is still on his tongue; Steve’s never in his life felt so connected to someone else.

What would it mean, to trust someone like that? Asked, Steve would say he trusts Bucky more than anyone. But that’s not true, is it? Steve trusts people in increments; perhaps once he trusted Bucky the way he imagines he does now. Even in this moment, though, Steve’s held back and protected himself from vulnerability. It’s unfair to Bucky, whom they’re asking a hell of a lot from every day, and who deserves as much as Steve can possibly give.

“Buck,” Steve says. Forces himself to keep his eyes open, even when the words feel glued to his throat. “No one’s ever made me feel. Like- like that. I mean.”

“You mean no one’s ever blown you?” Bucky’s eyes widen, his face a mix of pleased challenge and also surprise.

“Well, that too.”

“Wait,” Bucky moves to roll off of him, but Steve holds him close.

“Do we really need to talk about it?” Steve asks miserably.

“I dunno. Do we?”

Steve’s got a whole hell of a passel of feelings happening right now; he really doesn’t want to pull them out, one by one, when it’s taken so much to even speak up.

“Not – not now, okay?” Steve touches Bucky’s cheekbone, right above where his stubble comes in.

“Tell me what you want,” Bucky says. He’s holding himself up on his one hand; Steve knows he’s strong enough to maintain what amounts to a one armed plank for a while, but that doesn’t mean he should have to.

“I don’t know.” Steve breathes them in. It smells like sweat and something deeper; something he’s not smelled before, something he’s sure only a super sense might pick up. Bucky’s lips on his are a request; they’re coaxing and safe. Steve realizes abruptly he does know what he wants. He rolls Bucky onto his side and plasters them together as much as he can. Drapes one thigh over Bucky’s legs and begs with his lips for more kisses.

“Just stay close, okay?” he whispers against Bucky’s lips.

Bucky splays his hand against Steve’s lower back; Steve’s cock is trapped against his belly. Friction is a tease, almost there but not enough. Steve whimpers.

“Remind me next time to get something to slick you up with,” Bucky says.

“I got something,” Steve says. “I might be new to this, but I’m no monk.” He pulls lube out of his dresser drawer and hands it to Bucky.

“Monks can’t jerk it?” Bucky examines the bottle. Steve forces himself not to take it from him and do the job himself.

“Pal, I have no idea what monks can and cannot do. But I have a pretty good idea what _we_ can.”

“Shut up,” Bucky says. Affection colors his voice, rounds it, so that even the insult is intimate. Bucky’s opened the cap, but for some reason doesn’t turn to Steve’s cock. Instead, he begins to rub it between his own thighs.

“What’re you doing?” Steve’s pretty sure he knows. Blood rushes through him, his chest throbs with his heartbeat.

“Come here,” Bucky says. He uses what’s left of the lube on his hand on Steve, pumping his cock once. Steve closes his eyes tight. He wants to linger, with Bucky, too. “I think this’ll be good. Face to face. Slower.”

Steve blushes. “Sorry.”

“Sorry that you’re so hot for this? That you wanna be with me that bad?” Bucky’s laughter is a kind tease. “Come closer.”

Bucky guides Steve; lifts his own soft cock out of the way so that Steve can slide his between Bucky’s thighs. Side by side like this, Steve can see how this’ll be slower. He has a limited range of motion; he craves a closeness. Wants his chest against Bucky’s, their mouths touching, breath moist between them. He needs Bucky’s arm around him, keeping him from falling apart. Bucky’s thighs are thick and so strong; he squeezes them together around Steve and bites Steve’s lip, gently.

“Go for it champ,” he says. Steve moans; he kisses Bucky back with closed eyes. A hand on Bucky’s back isn’t enough, then. He slides his hand down, testing Bucky’s response, and cups one of his ass cheeks. It’s full, tensing and relaxing as he too moves with Steve. He keeps Steve steady, encouraging a slow slide. Coaxing the most out of this.

“God, Bucky,” Steve whispers; everything is hot and slick; he’s over sensitized, pleasure like fire spilling from his cock into his belly. Bucky’s hand is on his ass now too, encouraging him. Steve’s body is shaking, hard, and his movements are erratic as his orgasm begins.

“So beautiful,” Bucky whispers. “Look at you, _yeah_. That’s it.”

Steve moans again; he thrusts harder. Bucky’s cock is filling; Steve spares the quickest thought to wonder if Bucky’s like him, with a fast recovery time and a lot of pent up energy. If he felt close to Bucky before, with his cock in his mouth and Bucky trusting Steve with his pleasure, it’s nothing like this. He can hear Bucky’s heart beating with his. Steve’s body is lit with pleasure, his limbs shaking with it. At the core of everything is this man, sweating and shaking with him. Bucky’s kiss is sloppy; Steve’s so close he can’t coordinate himself to return it, only to groan and dig his fingernails into the meat of Bucky’s ass.

And then there is it. The moment when everything coalesces. When he comes, everything is Bucky. Everything is _them_. His body goes cold and then hot and it’s Bucky’s name on his lips and tattooed into his heart, Bucky’s self sewn under Steve’s skin. He comes and comes, his orgasm singing through him. It takes a moment for Steve to come back into himself. Bucky’s eyes are so wide on him.

“I ain’t never seen anything like that,” Bucky whispers. Steve notices he’s hard again, between them. Bucky makes no move toward it. “You’re always the most stunning thing in the room Steve, but that was-”

“Stop,” Steve says, low and broken. He kisses Bucky hard to cover his embarrassment. His come is thick between Bucky’s thighs when his cock softens. He pulls away. Steve looks at Bucky, flushed and still aroused but utterly focused on Steve.

“You wanna-” Steve touches the tip of Bucky’s cock, which is still dripping.

“You don’t got to.”

Steve runs his hand between Bucky’s thighs. Collects his own come and coats Bucky’s cock with it. It’s so dirty; it’s thrilling, something Steve wouldn’t imagine himself doing before.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, the word punched out of him, surprise clear. “Hard. Fast, _god_. Do me fast Steve.”

So Steve does, jerking him as hard and fast as he dares, watching Bucky the whole time. When Bucky comes, Steve is right there, so close. And he knows exactly what Bucky meant. He’s never seen anything like it. That look on Bucky’s face. He’s so vulnerable, in the moment when he comes. The weight of trust there is something Steve will gladly, willingly shoulder for as long as Bucky is willing to share .


	17. Chapter 17

Bucky wipes them off with the sheet. Steve has no complaints; it would take a world disaster to get him out of this bed. They come down together without words. Doze. Every now and then Steve jerks awake, adrenaline spiking. But Bucky is with him, hand on Steve’s waist, face lax. Steve breathes and slips back into rest.

When he wakes for good, he finds Bucky sitting up in bed, loose pants on. He’s pushed the soiled sheet down to the end of the bed and is reading on a tablet.

“Hey sleeping beauty,” he says. He touches Steve’s ear with a fingertip. It’s strange and also intimate and affectionate.

“Ugh, no.” Every time Bucky calls him beautiful he wants to hide. Steve knows, objectively, that people find him attractive. It’s odd though, to be the object of admiration when for years he was a small, sickly, scrappy kid no one would look twice at. Bucky scoots down with a smile. He runs his hand from Steve’s shoulder to his ass, which is when Steve becomes aware that he’d not only naked, but that Bucky’s pushed the _whole_ sheet down, all the way off of them both.

“You degenerate,” he says.

“You can’t blame a guy,” Bucky says. His hand is on the small of Steve’s back now. “Like I said, beautiful.”

Steve squirms. “I can’t help but notice that you’re dressed.”

“Well I left the apartment to go get some food, which is now in the kitchen, if you’re hungry.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He doesn’t want to leave the bed, or Bucky, but his stomach definitely finds the prospect of food enticing. “I suppose getting dressed for that would be a good idea.”

“Didn’t want to advertise this, either, in case you don’t want people to know,” Bucky says. He rolls onto his back. Steve comes up on an elbow to look down on him.

“You think I am ashamed or something? Because I’m not.” Steve tugs on a lock of Bucky’s hair. “Some things are private, sure. And I can’t say this won’t shock the hell out of people. But I would never hide you if you don’t want to be hidden.”

“You just don’t want to have to explain, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

Bucky shifts and takes Steve’s hand. “Look, if we were the kind to go out there holding hands or do something like kiss in front of Wanda or Sam, do you think they won’t have questions?”

“Well I don’t know if they’d ask them out loud.”

Bucky snorts. “If they did? And you had to talk about feelings?”

Steve frowns. “What’re you implying?”

Bucky pulls Steve down with a hand around his neck, kisses him softly. Steve loses himself in it, luxuriates in the closeness.

“Is it always like this Bucky? After?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky traces Steve’s lips with a fingertip. Steve kisses it, and then the palm of his hand. “It’s never been like this for me. But it’s supposed to be. When you’re with someone you feel like this about.”

Steve puts his head on Bucky’s chest. He doesn’t want to say the words even when he aches to hear them from Bucky. Bucky’s right: outside this room and these doors, people will have questions. Something deeply personal and private will be theirs to think of as they will.

He’ll never, ever be ashamed of Bucky though. And he’ll go to the mat to prove it. Always.

~*~

Steve wipes his lips and sets the napkin on the plate. They’ve eaten in near silence, stealing glances and smiling from time to time. There’s no pressure to speak though; rather it feels like a well-worn habit they’re pulling from a dusty closet – an ability to be in the same space without the need to clutter it with talk.

When the meal is over though, Steve hesitates at the sink. Suddenly shy of Bucky, he wonders what happens next. Despite the quiet meal, they’ll have to talk at some point. Figure out what happens beyond these doors. Hell, Steve’s not even sure what happens within them from here forward. He’d glutted his senses with Bucky earlier and still feels starved. Steve is still raw, though, unpracticed and terribly skittish.

“Steve?” Bucky is behind him, reaching around him to put his plate in the sink.

“I’m here,” Steve says. He turns and smiles. Bucky doesn’t move back; he’s close enough to kiss. “Say, you wanna watch a movie or something?”

Bucky’s head tilts, his smile lopsided, but he nods. “Sure.”

Steve finishes cleaning up, waving Bucky away. “You get it ready. If you clean, you don’t cook, right?”

“I don’t know?” Bucky’s tentative.

“Well, yeah,” Steve says. “That was our rule. Back then.”

“When we lived together, right.” Bucky’s voice is almost relieved, as if the memory has slotted into place with Steve’s words. Maybe it has. Maybe all Steve needs to do is remember them and remind Bucky, now that he’s been doing the therapy.

Or that’s wishful thinking. _If wishes were horses, beggars would ride._ Steve shrugs it off and heads out of the kitchen.

Bucky’s not on the couch in front of the television. Rather, he’s sprawled in the messy bed, remote in one hand, a sweating glass of water in the other. He smiles when Steve comes in; his smile back is a reflex Steve’ll never undo.

“C’mere,” Bucky says. “I’ve got it narrowed between The Martian and The Imitation Game. You seen either?”

“Have you?”

“No. But they seem sufficiently non-violent.”

“I think you’ll like The Martian better,” Steve says, taking the remote and navigating to get it started.

“Well, if you’ve already seen it-”

“No, I liked it. I’d like to see it again,” Steve insists. “Besides. I don’t know how much brain I got for payin’ attention.” His words slip into a different cadence; he’s tired and Bucky brings it out in him.

“Fucked that right outta ya, huh?” Bucky thumbs Steve’s lip. Steve looks away and back, but smiles.

“Or something.”

He lets himself get lost in Bucky’s eyes for a long beat; he leans into Bucky’s kiss, which is gentle and demands nothing. Steve has no idea how well or if Bucky can read him, but he tries to let himself open. Hopes Bucky can see his lack of confidence and exhaustion and nerves. Bucky kisses his cheek and settles himself on Steve’s chest, sighing and wiggling as the opening credits roll.

When the final credits come up and Bucky sits, Steve stretches – they haven’t moved a muscle throughout and he’s rather stiff for it.

“You like it?”

Bucky shrugs. “It was okay.”

“You were awfully still. Thought maybe you were really into it.”

“Maybe I just liked where I was at.” Bucky gets up gracefully. “I’m going for more water, want any?”

“Sure,” Steve says. He’s not used to being taken care of like this anymore. Of small gestures like dinner, and this.

While Bucky is gone, Steve takes a moment in the bathroom. Brushes his teeth and changes into clean clothes. He ought to shower. When he glances into the mirror, he’s surprised to see the redness of his lips, which are slightly swollen, and a fading mark on his neck that might be a bite. But more, Steve’s shocked by how present he seems. Steve’s learned to avoid the mirror more and more these days; so often it’s disorienting. Steve’s never sure if who he is in his head will match what he’s being shown.

Tonight though, everything feels solid. Grounded. The body in the mirror is the one Bucky touched. Marked and kissed and shaped with his hands. Steve curls a hand around his forearm. For once, the boundary of his skin lies exactly where it should.

~*~

“Steve, I gotta ask,” Bucky says. They’re side by side, the credits of the movie playing on mute and washing the room dark and flickering. “What about Peggy?”

“You mean what happened to her?”

“No, I mean you two never...?”

“Oh, that.” Steve rolls onto his back. Fending off these questions seems pointless, inevitably Bucky’ll have more.

“You don’t have-”

“No it’s okay. I just. Am – still figuring this out. Before Peggy, you remember how you always tried to set me up on dates?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, in a remembering rather than confident tone.

“They never really went anywhere, right? Because I didn’t want them to. I mean, mostly they weren’t going to anyway because I was me-”

“Hey! What’s that mean?”

“Shhh, Buck. Anyway. I just never _felt_ it.”

“Felt it?”

“I don’t know how to explain. But I never felt like I wanted any of them. I always thought, well there’s a girl out there for me, and I’ll know when I find her. And I did, with Peggy.”

“But that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“I wanted to. _God_ the things I used to think about her. But it was war, Buck. There was no time for taking it slow like I imagined. There was always something. And half the time I was so worried about you-”

“ _Me_ _?_ ” Bucky’s eyebrows are up against his hairline again. The light in the room is a cool blue now; the movie’s changed to the title screen playing on a loop.

“Bucky, do you remember Azzano?” Steve says. He hopes he can – too late thinks he shouldn’t, because for all he knows this is a trigger.

Bucky stiffens but nods. “Some.”

Steve waits but Bucky doesn’t say any more.

“After - you weren’t the same, Bucky. At night especially. I worried about you sometimes; you’d sit and take apart your gun and put it together and start all over, staring at something I couldn’t see. You said you were fine, over and over. Clear as day you weren’t, though. At least to me.”

“Well I certainly wasn’t trying to cock-block you.”

“Did you really just say cock-block?”

Bucky laughs and pushes Steve’s shoulder. “Shut up and explain to me how you got to be a 99 year old virgin, asshole.”

“I didn’t want it fast. I didn’t want it somewhere where I couldn’t _be_ with her. And she felt the same. It was...there was this promise somehow, we both felt, like _after_ the war. Everything would fall into place then.” Steve hates that his voice is shredding a bit by the end. “There’s more though.” Bucky’s fingers are on Steve’s cheek. “It’s hard. To be with someone – to want to. I guess this is why I never was, even after the ice. Lord knows I tried and Natasha’s thrown about every dame in the book at me – for . Not because I think it’s wrong or anything. I just never wanted it with someone I didn’t love. Couldn’t make myself.”

Bucky thinks about this for a long time. A sharp smile moves across his features. “But you thought of her, right?”

“Peggy? Well yeah.” Steve wants to bite that smile, to slide his tongue into Bucky’s mouth to shut him up.

“What would you think about?”

“You’re not asking me to-”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He scoots closer to Steve, mouth a breath from his, and lets Steve do as he wants, biting back and then licking into him with rough intent. “I really am.”

“Buck, you like dames too, right?”

“Aw, Steve I’m tryin’ to make time here, no more questions,” Bucky says. His hand is pushing Steve’s shirt up.

“You got to ask – it’s my turn!”

Bucky sighs. His fingers are on Steve’s nipples now and they don’t stop. He digs a fingernail lightly into one and Steve hisses. “Yes. I guess I’ve never been picky. From what I remember.”

“Did you – with men, back-”

“Question hour over; either shut up or talk to me about Peg. You ever see her at all?”

“See her?”

“Naked,” Bucky kisses Steve’s throat. He’s moved on to pinching Steve’s nipple; Steve squirms helplessly.

“No.” Steve gasps. “I only kissed her the once.”

“Boy, she was stacked something gorgeous though, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He gets a hand in Bucky’s hair and pulls him up for another kiss. Bucky’s hard against his hip. Steve pulls Bucky onto him, gets one hand down the back of Bucky’s pants to palm his ass.

“Back then I could take one look at a woman like that and see how she’d look, so hot for it. Her nipples would be like wine, big and ready for you.”

“Ready for me to do what?” Steve grinds up against Bucky, egging him on. He wants their skin together, the friction and heat. Rubbing against each other like this though, clothed, desperate with dirty words hanging in the spaces between lips and skin is getting him so hot he can’t be bothered to stop.

“They’d get hard when you’d suck on them; lots of dames love that. Never knew one who didn’t get nice and wet for it.”

“Aw, _fuck_ Bucky,” Steve moans, throbbing hard where his cock is lining up against Bucky’s.

“They’d be fat and heavy in your hands. You ever thought Steve, ‘bout what it would be like, to touch her, to slide your fingers up into her pussy?”

“Of course,” Steve says. He pushes Bucky’s tank top off and hauls him up by the armpits to he can bite Bucky’s neck.

“It’s so hot Stevie. Hot and wet; don’t think I ever fingered a dame and thought how I didn’t want to just stay there. You’ll know one day, how it is, when you slide up into someone. At first, how it’s like home, and you wanna just stay. Don’t matter if you’re going slow or not.”

“Ain’t never gonna want someone else Buck,” Steve whispers; it’s like a fever, Bucky’s words and their bodies. Bucky doesn’t stop.

“Did you wanna put your mouth on her?”

 _Fuck_ , had he ever. Steve had jerked himself raw over that fantasy, when he’d first discovered the recovery effect of serum on his dick. He’d wanted to know what it would be like to let her grind down on him, salt and musk and heat; he would have begged her to use him. Anyway he could think of, he thought of it. His favorite had been of her, commanding him. He could see every detail: Peggy pulling her skirt up, kneeling over him. Riding his face, breathless and telling him everything he should do to please her. Every time he’d think of it, of being the one to bring her off, over and over, he’d come, biting his knuckle to keep quiet.

“Yeah,” Steve says. Bucky’s tugging at Steve’s pants now; Steve gets to work on pushing his and Bucky’s down enough to get their cocks out. “I thought about that with you too, recently. Getting you in my mouth. What you’d taste like.”

“You musta been born for it then,” Bucky says. He moans and Steve digs his fingers into Bucky’s flesh. They’re low, down into the crease of Bucky’s ass and thighs, rubbing him up against Steve. There’s too much friction but they’re sweating and grunting and Steve’s right on the razor edge of orgasm. “Made for giving head.”

“Yes.” Steve arches and whines.

“Wanna keep it in your mouth, right? I’d just slip my dick in and you’d be happy to keep it warm. Keep you stuffed up full of me until I’m ready to give you more.”

It’s the filthiest thing anyone’s ever said to him by far; Bucky’s words lance through him, thrilling and dark and Steve’s coming before he has time to brace for it or try to back off.

~*~

They wake up a mess, sticky from the residue of come, Steve in particular where Bucky’d come all over him, jerking off and groaning praise about Steve’s body the whole time.

“Ugh.” Bucky rolls onto his back. “We gotta shower.”

Steve winces and nods. “You can go first.”

“Or you could come with me.”

Steve turns his head; Bucky’s eyes are heavy with lingering sleep. Bucky’s never let him see his stump without its covering. “You sure?”

“Shut up and get in the shower with me punk.” Bucky rolls to stand, effortlessly naked. Steve swallows and follows. Every moment of vulnerability with Bucky – on either end – feels fraught somehow. Steve’s not used to it.

“We got a few days break,” Steve says. He’s itching to help Bucky wash his hair. To put his hands on him, slippery with soap, to know the shape of him in his hands again. It’s not sex he wants, exactly. Steve’s awake to his body now; helpless to a deep hunger he’s waited years to feed.

“We’ll find ways to fill the time,” Bucky says. He smirks over his shoulder at Steve.

“Buck,” Steve swallows. “Can I wash your hair?”

Bucky turns toward him. “Is this cause you think I can’t?” Bucky gestures toward his missing arm where Steve’s worked hard not to look. The scars are horrific; it hurts to see how they’ve hurt Bucky.

“It’s because I don’t wanna stop touching you,” Steve says. Bucky kisses him, then presses the shampoo bottle into Steve’s hand.

~*~

They take coffee on the veranda where they meet with the team; Nat and Sam are gone, but Wanda is still in the complex, as is T’Challa, who joins them shortly after they emerge. Steve’s never sure if he comes on his own, or if he’s informed by his ever present but unobtrusive staff.

“I’ve taken the liberty of compiling a list of places you might want to go,” T’Challa says over the rim of his cup. “Safe places, of course. This is beautiful country. There is much here you might enjoy, while you have this break.”

“Thank you,” Steve says. He takes the folder from T’Challa. As much as he wants to spend days alone with Bucky, he’s curious about Wakanda and in no way averse to them seeing parts of the world together.

“Good morning,” Wanda says. Her fingers touch Steve’s shoulder lightly in greeting, and when she sits her eyes meet his. They’re playful, almost, alight with something. Steve wants to sigh; it’s hard to have privacy sometimes, with her. He knows she’s not trying to read him. Bucky glances at him, a sideways look full of amusement as well. Steve’s felt the energy between them, thick and heady, all morning. It must be pretty obvious to them all.

“You seem rather relaxed today, friend,” T’Challa says. There’s no hint of a smile on his face. T’Challa’s a master of impassive face and inflection, even more so than Steve. Steve curses the flush that rises to his cheeks.

“Slept well for once,” he says with a straight face. Wanda snorts softly and Steve tries to warn her off with a look. She’s long past the days where Steve can intimidate her. Thankfully, Wanda’s not the sort to pry into Steve’s life.

“T’Challa has provided us with a list of places we might like to explore or see,” Steve says. “Would you like to come?”

“I wouldn’t want to be a third wheel,” she says.

Bucky’s smile is sweet; he doesn’t tell Steve what happens between them in therapy, but it’s obvious he has a mile-wide streak of affection for her.

“You could never be,” he says. “You must be tired of being cooped up.”

Wanda shrugs; as is always, her every move is elegant. Slightly contained but graceful. She’s come from being confined to Tony’s compound to the Raft, then to T’Challa’s palace. It’s a lovely place, but she’s not gone past the walls of it since they’ve come.

“Come with us,” Steve says and means it.

~*~

Later she finds him in the hall. “Are you sure you don’t want time with him?”

“Bucky’ll be there too,” Steve says.

“Things have changed,” she says. Steve leans against the wall and looks down. “It’s lovely Steve. I’m happy for you.”

He shakes his head but lets her touch him, her hand on his forearm. He wonders now, how much kindness they’ve been extending him that he’s been pushing away reflexively. Steve’s known loneliness with aching acuity for so long. Opening himself to BuckyWanda is so young, but much older than she should be. How often has he rebuffed honest care from her? “Thank you.” He’s deeply grateful that she doesn’t press for information. “But we mean it. I want you to come.”

Her smile is brilliant and honest. “Thank you. I would like that then.”

“We’ll pick things over lunch, then?”

“Yes.” Wanda leans in and gives him a careful hug. He gathers her close and gentle; she’s tiny in his arms. When was Wanda last hugged? What must it be like for her, without Pietro, completely alone in that way?

Steve’s stomach cramps because he knows. He’s never looked hard enough to see how closely her life might resemble his. The shame of it curls hard and hot in his chest. He wants to apologize; to make some sort of promise to her. He hasn’t earned that, yet. But he will.

~*~

The next two days of Steve’s life are painfully beautiful. He wakes to Bucky in his arms. Bucky’s fierce and strong and so willing. He comes to Steve easily; Steve gives over to pleasure and to Bucky’s words in a way he is shocked by. It’s so easy with Bucky, to let himself be blinded. To forget his body and his selves and everything that’s been cutting deep into him for years.

Wanda is such a delight; they have no reason to be Avengers here. Rather, she feels like their sister. Bucky takes more pleasure than she in her own delight. Wakanda is like no place on earth, that’s for sure. Bucky finds ways to coax laughter out of Wanda; he holds her hand as they navigate a steep incline through the Crystal Forrest toward the waterfalls T’Challa had told them about. The only noise is the rush of water there. Steve sits at the edge and closes his eyes. Even the birds are silenced. The mist is welcome in the heat, cooling skin that’s tacky with sweat. Steve is emptied by the noise. He’s stunningly blank; all tension eases from him until he’s nothing but breath and bones. He doesn’t startle when Bucky comes up behind him. Instead, he leans into Bucky, trusts him with his weight. Wanda sits next to him, careful of her steps close to the edge. She takes Steve’s hand.

The moment isn’t the same for them; somehow he knows this. They’re here for him. Steve’s instinct speaks here. He’s so aware, since Bucky’s first kissed him. There’s a world he’s sealed himself away from. It’s nearly painful, to let it in after all this time. Right now, though, there’s nothing but the three of them. Steve aches with how loved he knows he is right now. He turns his face into Bucky’s neck and squeezes Wanda’s fingers. Falling apart would be so easy; instead, he lets himself be held together and breathes into the peace of the moment

 ~*~

Bucky takes him to bed that night and it’s like nothing Steve’s ever imagined. He’d had no idea how much noise is in his head, always. Or how it could be, to be so quiet in his mind.

“So good for me,” Bucky murmurs; Steve’s eyes never leave his. He’s boneless with pleasure. Bucky brings him off again, and then again. With his fingers and mouth, and then straddling him, cupping Steve’s sensitive cock between his asscheeks. He holds Steve’s wrists above his head with one hand. “Gonna make you feel so good Stevie.”

“I do,” Steve gasps. Every roll of Bucky’s hips Steve can feel the soft give of Bucky’s balls against the tip of his erection. He can’t help but imagine it, sliding into Bucky, how tight he’d be. What he’d have to do to work him into a shaking mess. Bucky knows; he teases Steve with words. He lets go of Steve’s hands, soothing him when he whimpers at the loss with a kiss. Takes Steve’s cock and rubs it against his hole. Steve’s not sure if he can even come now, he’s so over- sensitive.

“Next time,” Bucky’s eyes are so direct, black-blue and full of promise. “If you’re a good boy. Keep letting me give you what you need and I’ll let you fuck me. You can slide up into me and it’ll be so good baby.”

Steve grunts and comes, head tilted back and eyes shut. He bruises Bucky’s hips with his tight grip and after, floats. Keeps floating, stays in that perfectly white, blank space he’s tucked inside with the falls and jungle.


	18. Chapter 18

The morning Bucky is slated to go back to therapy, Steve does he level best to keep Bucky in bed with him. Sam had been back for two days; they’d spent those days conferring with Dr. Giavalvo and Wanda, coming up with a new treatment plan based on their research and what they learned on their trip, conferencing with other specialists. As each day passed, dread had grown heavier and heavier in Steve’s stomach. Last night, Bucky had pulled him into bed roughly.

“Stop thinking so much Stevie. It’ll be okay.”

Tight worry lines in the set of Bucky’s mouth told him otherwise. He’d kissed the protest off of Steve’s lips and used his body to flatten him into the mattress. Bitten Steve under his ear, a spot they both know now that makes him pliant.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Steve said. “You don’t always have to think of me.”

“Who else should I think about when I’m fucking you?” Bucky laughed.

“I didn’t mean like that,” Steve said. He rolled Bucky off of him. “You make me feel so good. Can’t I do that-”

“Steve, you do make me feel good.” Bucky kissed him, soft and then deeper, and ran his fingers up and down Steve’s stomach. “Everything we do; Steve it’s so good. I can’t explain – when we’re like this, how it...it helps.”

Maybe Steve should have tried to make Bucky talk more then; maybe they both should, only Bucky’s eyes and shoulders were so tight, and Steve would do anything, give anything, to make that go away.

Morning is all around them, and with it, Steve is doing his best to surround Bucky. To keep him inside the circle of his arms. Bucky had woken up tense; gone from dead asleep to vibrating with coiled anxiety in the lines of his body. Steve kisses his shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” he whispers.

“Of course I do.” Steve hates the finality in Bucky’s voice.

“I don’t like to see you hurting.”

Bucky laughs, softly and Steve has no idea why.

“I gotta go, Steve. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.” Bucky closes his eyes and lets Steve touch his cheekbone and nose. Steve doesn’t believe him; he knows though, that the only way out for Bucky is through. Bucky’s had decades of other people taking choice away from him. Steve must do what Peggy spoke of all those years ago: respect Bucky and give him the dignity of his choice

“I’ll be here when you’re done.”

“Steve,” Bucky says. “Go for a run. Do something productive. Don’t wait around for me here.”

“I meant that metaphorically, asshole,” Steve says. It gets a smile from Bucky, which is what Steve wanted.

~*~

Bucky comes back worse than he left. Where before he’s come home and greeted Steve, showered and gone straight back to him, glued to Steve’s side in some form or another, today he barely grunts at him before locking himself in the bathroom. Steve stands at the door for a long time, listening while Bucky gets the shower going. After, it’s just the sound of water. It goes on forever. Eventually Steve figures that Bucky might not want him there, hovering at the door waiting. He forces himself to go into the kitchen. He stares into the fridge. Wanders toward the window. Sits on the couch and pretends to read. Gives up and listens for the sound of the shower being turned off. He catalogues each sound. The water going off. The shower door opening and closing. The bathroom door opening and slightly father away, the bedroom door closing. He counts his breaths while he waits for Bucky to emerge.

Only, he doesn’t.

Steve doesn’t want to leave, in case Bucky needs him, but has no idea what to do.

_Bucky has holed up in our room, I don’t know what to do_

_Did he tell you or has he asked for anything?_ Sam texts back.

_No. He just came in, took a shower, and went into the room_

_I’m guessing this isn’t his usual reacti_ _on?_

_No_

 Steve doesn’t detail what Bucky’s usual reaction is, because he doesn’t want to violate Bucky’s privacy. Which is ironic, because he very much wants to ask Sam what the hell happened today to make Bucky behave like this.

 _I don’t know man. Maybe g_ _ive him some time, then check in on him. Low key, no pressure. Ask if he needs anything. Respect anything he asks for or tells you_

_Sam, I’m not stupid_

_You ask for advice, you get it._

_Sorry. Stress_

_No worries. T_ _ext if you need anything else_

Steve decides he’s going to give Bucky half an hour before he checks in. He uses that time to run through a calisthenics workout, determined to distract himself through a well-worn and familiar set of repetitive exercises. Once he’s done, he towels off, calms his breathing and knocks lightly on the door.

“Buck?” There’s a long pause; maybe he’s fallen asleep.

“Come in,” Bucky says. Steve opens the door slowly. Bucky has the blinds drawn and lights off. He’s on the bed, curled away from the door.

“You need anything? I don’t want to intrude, I just wanted to check in.”

Bucky rolls over. Steve curls his fingers into a tight fist. He’s never seen Bucky so exhausted. His face is a map of defeat, his eyes close to empty. Steve can see the process as Bucky pulls together a reply.

“Come lay with me,” Bucky says.

Steve arranges himself on the bed; not touching Bucky, but close. He starts on his side, catches Bucky’s eye. He can’t guess what Bucky wants; he can’t even read him at all. It’s deeply disconcerting. Right now, Bucky has every ounce of agency. Steve will go or do anything Bucky asks. Bucky doesn’t move closer. He closes his eyes and breathes deep. Puts his hand on Steve’s arm, runs his fingers down until they reach Steve’s hand. He pulls it between them, curling his fingers around Steve’s, and falls asleep.

~*~

Eventually Steve gets up to retrieve his book from the living room. He’s not remotely sleepy, but doesn’t want to leave Bucky’s side. Bucky sleeps peacefully for an hour before his breath begins to come short and his limbs begin to jerk erratically. Steve doesn’t know if you’re supposed to wake someone up from a bad dream, but when Bucky begins to take hitching breaths that turn into pained moans, Steve can’t take it anymore.

“Bucky?” Bucky’s reaction to Steve’s gentle hand on his shoulder is instant: he’s off the bed and in a defensive crouch before Steve can process what’s happened. Bucky reaches toward his calf, searching for a weapon but finding none.

“Hey,” he holds his hands out, “Hey, Buck, it’s me.”

“I don’t know you,” Bucky spits out, gravel-voiced.

“It’s Steve. You know me.” Steve tries to keep insistence out of his tone, but to remain confident, despite the lance of pain at the words. Bucky’s head tilts to the side. His breathing begins to slow, and eventually, his shoulders begin to relax.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, low and pained.

“Hey bud,” Steve edges toward him on the bed. “Can I come closer?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He puts his hand to his forehead.

“You with me?” Steve comes to a crouch in front of him.

“Yes. I think,” Bucky closes his eyes. “My head hurts.”

“Wanna get back up on the bed?” Steve risks a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky tilts forward, into Steve’s arms. He puts his face in the crook of Steve’s neck. Steve has to get his knees down to balance against Bucky’s weight. Bucky doesn’t speak, and so Steve doesn’t either. He puts a hand on the small of Bucky’s back, mindful that hugging him might feel too confining. A small tremor courses through Bucky; soon it escalates to full body shakes. Bucky doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a noise. Instead, he breathes against Steve’s neck and presses closer. Steve runs the palm of his hand up and down Bucky’s back, places his other on Bucky’s hip and tries to match his breathing to Bucky’s.

When Bucky pulls away, his face is still drawn with pain, but his eyes are no longer empty.

“Does your head hurt?”

Bucky nods.

“What can I do?” Steve holds Bucky by the back of his neck, gently. It’s corded with tension. He begins to massage it, mindful of Bucky’s response. Bucky takes a breath and his eyes flutter shut.

“That’s nice.”

Steve wants to suggest they sit somewhere, or get back on the bed. But he lets Bucky lead. He slides his fingers under Bucky’s hair, and massages the pads against his neck. The angle is strange, but Bucky doesn’t say a word, and so neither does Steve. His fingers trace the knots from Bucky’s neck to his shoulders.

“Would you...” Bucky wets his lips. “Keep going?”

“Of course.” Steve exhales softly.

“Maybe we can move though.” A ghost of a smile wisps across Bucky’s face.

“Of course. Anything,” Steve promises, and means it.

~*~

Bucky goes so far as to take his shirt off and get on the bed.

“Will it hurt anything if I massage around here?” He runs his fingers over the fabric of the cap over his stump, where the shoulder joint is and where it meets Bucky’s body.

“Shouldn’t.” Bucky doesn’t move. “It hurts so much less now, without the weight of that arm. I don’t even know that it hurts enough to warrant massaging it.”

 _Well, it’s a good thing this is about more than pain management._ Steve straddles Bucky’s waist, checks in with him, and begins. He asks Bucky for feedback often; what feels good, where he’d like more and what doesn’t feel good. Steve’s attuned to his own body; he supposes anyone who’s been through the healing process of broken bones, torn muscles, and countless deep bruising would be. He focuses on what he remembers hurting most, finding tender spots that make Bucky whimper. He’s not terribly vocal, which is unusual, but Steve can also tell he’s gone inside his head a little. And that’s okay. Steve understands needing that.

Bucky’s more relaxed than Steve knew possible, when it’s done. His back rises in a honey slow rhythm that mimics the breath of sleep.

“Stay,” Bucky says when Steve moves to get off of the bed. “Please.”

“Of course,” Steve says. Bucky arranges himself, draped on top of Steve. He sighs happily when Steve begins to play with the loose strands of his hair.

“I’m not ready to talk about details,” Bucky says. Steve consciously unfreezes his body, terrified of startling Bucky into silence.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want-”

“-I do,” Bucky insists. “Just not yet. You’re not...” Bucky sighs.

“Buck,” Steve says. “I know you worry about me, but I’m fine. I can take this. I want to be here for you.”

Bucky lifts his head and examines Steve’s face for longer than he’s comfortable with.

“I know you do champ. I promise. When the time is right.” He levers himself closer to Steve and presses a light kiss to his forehead. “I’m starved.”

Steve smiles: not only is he starved, but Bucky’s demeanor has changed drastically and it doesn’t feel like he’s pretending in any way, for Steve’s benefit.

~*~

Steve watches a curtain of shadow roll back over the hills as the sun rises behind him. He’s brittle, thin spun glass; he holds himself very still and ignores the fire in his stomach. Everything feels like a threat, when Bucky’s gone. Things have changed, recently. Steve began to feel safer – became more comfortable with the process they’ve all been devoting themselves too, in healing Bucky.

At meals now, and when they go out, it’s obvious that Bucky has won both Sam and Wanda over. Now that they’ve seen layers of Bucky Barnes underneath the Winter Soldier they first met, under the years and years of Hydra abuse layered onto his mind. Steve wants the whole world to love Bucky. It’s somehow less lonely, when others can see what Steve has fought for for so long, so hard; why this man is so worthy of the risks Steve has taken.

The reality is that at any moment, Bucky might break again. That inside the rooms where he’s held ( _not against his will, he’s chosen this_ ), they could be trying to unlock something encoded with a self-destruct. They could trigger a full scale reversion. They could utterly break Bucky, the real one who has been in there all along, who has seen and suffered more than Steve can wrap his mind around.

So Steve waits. Muscles coiled so tight they ache. Eyes tracking the horizon, unfocused, the world a mass of shifting greens as the trees move with the wind. When T’Challa touches his shoulder, he does not move for fear of breaking.

“Friend? I did not startle you, did I?”

“No, I heard you coming.”

“Is there anything I can be of assistance with, today?” T’Challa does not seem perturbed by Steve’s rudeness. Steve bites back approximately fifteen rude or sarcastic responses he can think of to that answer.

“No. I’m just taking in the view.”

“Alright. If you need anything, we are here to help you in any way we can.” T’Challa pauses, and then Steve feels his fingers at Steve’s elbow. “And I do not just mean helping your friend.”

Steve wants to recoil. He even feels a stirring of anger or resentment ( _panic_ ) in response. But he’s held together so very carefully, and he’s so terrifically fragile, the slightest thing will bring him crashing down. Instead, he reaches deep and forces his manners to respond for him.

“I thank you for that. You’ve been real good to us.”

“I cannot think of people who-” T’Challa clears his throat, but doesn’t continue. “I will see you later today  Captain.”

Steve nods, but never takes his eyes off of the green.

~*~

“Hey you,” Bucky says. Steve startles. He usually hears people coming, but Bucky excels at stealth. He looks up at Bucky. His hair is falling from the small bun Steve had pulled it into in the morning, and bags still remain under his eyes. He looks better though. There’s color to his skin and a shadow of a smile Steve wants to trace with his fingers.

“No, sit,” Bucky says, hand still on Steve’s shoulder, urging him down. He settles close, leaning his weight into Steve with a head on his shoulder. They don’t speak. It’s quiet; every so often they can hear the call of a bird or a voice somewhere else in the compound. It’s nice though, because Bucky doesn’t expect anything of Steve right now, and without speaking, Steve knows Bucky feels the same.

After a while, Steve imagines that Bucky begins to whisper; Steve can’t make it out. How can he be best for Bucky? He’s reflected a lot, today, about the imbalance in their relationship. How Bucky has held him as he’s fallen apart; how Steve keeps allowing himself to fall apart. How needy he has become.

“Let’s get something to eat.” Bucky says eventually. “You can tell me about your day.” There’s really nothing to tell.

They settle over leftovers, scavenging and then decimating anything they come across in the kitchen. Steve cannot fathom the wastefulness he’s seen repeatedly in this new world. The Depression is imprinted on him, as was Bucky. If he can help it, nothing goes bad without being eaten.

“Wha’dya get up to today?” Bucky asks, mouth full.

 “Spoke to T’Challa for a bit,” Steve hedges. _Stared at some trees. Realized I’m a selfish ass._

 “And?”

 “Drew some. Went for a run.” He did not, in fact, do any of those things. Bucky puts his sandwich down and considers Steve for a long time.   

 “Steve,” he says, and his tone makes Steve put his sandwich down too. “Why are you lying?”

“I don’t know what you’re-”

"Steve, you ain’t been able to lie to me since we were kids.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s nothing Buck. I just...I didn’t feel up to it today.”

“Up to what?” Bucky nudges Steve’s foot with his own.

“Anything,” Steve says. _Fuck_. “Bucky, don’t worry about it. How are you?”

Bucky laughs and looks away. A wisp of hair falls out of his bun. “As good as I can be.”

“I’m sorry, that was a dumb question-”

“No, it wasn’t. You were checking in on me. I’m checking in on you. I wanna know how you are too, Steve. It’s important.”

Steve exhales and looks down, then shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth. Bucky finishes his as well, so Steve clears the plates away.

“It’s still early. Want to go for a run with me?”

Bucky smiles and shrugs, a lopsided affair; Steve still wonders how Bucky feels about the loss of his arm. “Sure Steve.”

For all Steve knows, Bucky could care less about running. But Steve _has_ to move; he’s itching to work excess anxiety out of his body. He takes a hard route, up the steepest paths he can find, through dense forest with uneven ground that requires him to pay attention and stay aware of his surroundings. He runs until his lungs echo a memory. Steve both loves and fears the feeling: he remembers the panic press of having asthma attacks as a kid. He’s healthy now, though. He can push past, push through, push away. He runs on until he’s drenched in sweat. And when he turns back, he sees that Bucky is no longer with him.

Steve refuses to panic. He closes his eyes and listens to the language of the jungle, but hears nothing. Picking through the underbrush and over tree roots, he retraces his steps. It’s a ways before he finds Bucky, leaning against a tree, smiling. Sunlight breaks through the overstory of leaves. Verdance paints the scene in the richest colors and Bucky – god, Bucky is so alive, and so beautiful. And when he turns to Steve, it’s with a smile he’s sure no one else has ever seen, even himself. It’s a gift. Somewhere he refuses to acknowledge, Steve wonders if it’s a curse, as well. If it’s a taste of happiness that’ll get taken away.

He turns away from that fear and walks toward Bucky, lets Bucky pull him in until his palms read the rough bark of the tree, tasting the bite of its ridges; until his lips and breath taste only of Bucky.

“Steve?” Bucky whispers.

“Anything,” Steve says back, answering a question unasked.

"I wanna take you home, is that okay?”

“Of course,” Steve says. He pulls back to laugh, but Bucky shakes his head and puts his hand on Steve’s chin.

“I need to take you home. And to bed. I have-” he closes his eyes. His grip is tight. Steve hardly dares breath and the rush of arousal he feels is instant and bright. “I have this feeling – this need – I don’t know how to explain it Steve. When I’m with you, like I just wanna take you apart.”

“That’s okay Buck,” Steve says. “More than.”

“Seems to me,” Bucky says, looking into Steve’s eyes, thumb on his lip, “that it’s something you need too.”

“Yeah, I want that.” Steve says so soft Bucky has to lean in.

“But you gotta tell me if it’s too much. I know you. But I don’t ever want you to do something just because you think I want it. You promise me, okay? Promise me now that you’ll tell me to stop if I push you too hard.”

“I will,” Steve says. Bucky’s eyes are bright and intent. “I would never break a promise to you.”

Steve winces; he once promised he’d do his best to take care of Bucky. He’s assumed Bucky was dead after that fall. He should have looked for him. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to say he wouldn’t break a promise ever again. But Bucky’s already kissing the words off of his lips and burning his anxieties away with his tongue and his rough fingers in Steve’s hair.

~*~

They arrive at the compound much later; disheveled and still sweating, the jungle humidity adding to what they’d worked up together. They hadn’t made it back; Bucky had taken Steve apart right where they’d stood, leaned up against the tree. On his knees where Bucky had pushed him, following each command Bucky gave, Steve had felt himself slip father from his worries. The tang of Bucky on his tongue, the sticky sweat on his powerful thighs and between them, doing only and exactly what Bucky told him to do pulled him into a sweet silence. All he had to do was please Bucky; and when Bucky came, it was with a harsh, guttural command that Steve come too. He had, with only the first touch of his hand, shocked to find he was so aroused and hadn’t even noticed. In the whitewash of pleasure, everything was Bucky, a litany of gratefulness running like a loop in his mind. _Thankyouthankyouthankyou_ _,_ Steve panted with his forehead against Bucky’s hipbone, surrendered to the quiet. Bucky’s fingers in his hair were gentle.

“Thank you, Stevie,” Bucky had said. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get rough for Steve in this chapter. Take care of yourselves as you read!

“I know you want to ask questions,” Bucky says. Steve’s barely cracked his eyes open. He takes a breath; Bucky’s body is a livewire. He’s been awake for a while then. It’s been years since Steve’s had even a night of sleep like the ones he has with Bucky, and it takes him a bit to wake up from them. Bucky’s face is clear and alert when Steve rolls onto his side.

“What?”

“About how we’re progressing.”

Steve leans up on an elbow. Bucky smiles up at him. His hair is still tangled from Steve’s fingers the night before.

“I do. But the last thing I want to do is overstep, Bucky.”

"I know.” Bucky’s finger traces Steve’s cheek. “We’re making progress. Best we can see, we’ve disarmed half of the words.”       

 _Half?_ Steve forces himself to smile while his stomach falls and his fingers go cold. They’ve been at this for _weeks_.  

“It’ll go faster,” Bucky says. Steve curses. Bucky reads him so easily; makes it rather hard to disguise his reactions to pretty much anything. “We have a better handle on how to do it, what works. It’s less trial and error.”

“Well. That’s....that’s real good Buck.”

“It’s maybe gonna get harder. I don’t know that it won’t be like the other day.”

“Anything – you tell me anything you need. How to take care of you or what to do. What did you need that day?”

“You did just fine.” Bucky leans up and kisses him.

“Alright.”

“I know, Stevie. How hard it is, when you don’t know how to take it away for someone else. When you love them and you gotta watch them be in pain.”

Steve frowns. “Bucky, I’m fine.”

Bucky laughs. “The hell you are.” He holds Steve in place when he tries to pull away. “’Sides, it’s always been like this. Ain’t ever been easy to watch you suffer.”

“But,” Steve sits up and Bucky lets him. “Wait. You said – when you love someone. It’s always been like this? Buck. _Bucky_. How long?”

“Long enough,” Bucky says.

“Since we were kids, you mean?”

Bucky sits up too and looks Steve directly in the eyes. “Yeah.”

“But-”

“Aw, Steve, you never saw me like that. You never would have.”

Steve gapes at him. _Years_. Years and years of their lives and Bucky’s been in love with him. Or was. “You can’t know that!”

“Stevie. It was a different time. I didn’t – I wanted more for you.”

“You think that I’m okay with this now because of what time we’re in?” Steve forces the words. So much rises through him he can hardly breathe.

“Aren’t you?”

“No!” Bucky smirks and gives Steve that look, a relic from the ‘30’s, that speaks plainly what an idiot Steve is being.         “Okay. I don’t know. Because I can’t go back and redo any of it. But Bucky – you should have-”

“-and risked-”

“-nothing! Even if...even if I couldn’t’ve seen it like you did, I never would have stopped being your friend!”

“How can you say that Steve?”

“Fuck you, Bucky Barnes, if you think that – after everything we’ve fucking gone through and the last years of our lives – that _anything_ would stop me from being your friend.”

Steve’s standing now, pulling on clothes, barely able to grasp his shirt for the shaking in his hands.

“Steve,” Bucky says, soft and broken. He’s looking at his lap, his fingers clenched in the sheets.

“Shit.” Steve runs his fingers through his hair. He sits and takes Bucky’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s all right.” Bucky doesn’t look up. “I probably shouldn’tve told you.”

Steve swallows. He tilts Bucky’s chin up. “No, you should. Just. Took me by surprise.” He cups Bucky’s cheek. Forces himself to appear calm. He’s not really mad at Bucky, he doesn’t think. He can’t name what the feeling in him is, what it means. Instead of trying, he kisses Bucky; gathers him close and lays him back and lays forgiveness over his body.

~*~

They don’t walk hand in hand to breakfast, although Steve’s aware they might as well be, what with the relaxed and sated set to their bodies, and what he’s reasonably sure are dopey looks they keep sharing.

Steve’s so content that it takes him a few minutes to read the tension at the table. Even then, he only perceives it because Bucky’s body tightens in response to it.

“What happened?” Steve sits up straight and sets his coffee mug down.

“Nothing.” Sam stares T’Challa down as he speaks.

“Sam,” Steve says. “What’s going on?”

“Do not trouble yourself,” T’Challa says at length, interrupting the staring contest Steve and Sam are having. “It is nothing you can help with.”

“Something’s happened,” Bucky says; he gestures, Steve reads it and knows then – something outside of the compound has happened. He stands so quickly his chair falls over.

“Fuck, man. Come on Steve,” Sam stands too.

“Leave it Sam,” Steve snaps. He turns the first television he finds on. Watches in horror as the news shows the smoking wreckage of a building, still burning. The newscaster narrates what is happening in an even, practiced voice. The feed cuts to an on the ground camera capturing fleeing citizens, dust covered and streaked in tears and blood. Steve doesn’t speak more than a handful of Xhosa; he’s gifted at picking up languages but hasn’t brought himself to try. It’s clear enough though, when the newscaster’s voice pitches higher and faster, to see why: red and black streaks through the air, as Iron Man and War Machine arrive at the scene. Another bomb detonates; it’s impossible through the television to get a bead on what is happening. Tony is in pursuit of someone, lasers firing rather than assisting people in evacuation.

“We have to go,” Steve turns but is stopped by Bucky’s hand on his arm.

“Go where?” Sam is close too, but now his voice is quiet.

 “What do you mean go where?” Steve points at the screen as his voice rises.

“Steve, you can’t,” Sam says, voice hard but eyes too kind. In the background, another small explosion is heard, though he can’t tell if it’s just battle noise.

“Like _hell_ I can’t.” Steve wrenches his arm away and stalks toward his rooms. His adrenaline is battle high, and he’s already strategizing how he’ll get where he needs. He searches his phone for where the battle is taking place. He’ll have to get down to the armory, and somehow get a jet. T’Challa was quiet during the exchange, perhaps Steve won’t have to steal it.

It doesn’t strike him until he’s stripping his shirt off, what Sam meant. The corner on his side of the bed, where he’s always kept his shield, is empty. Because he gave it up. His uniform has been destroyed and tossed; there’s no backup in his closet.

Because Steve gave it all up. Because Steve is no longer, in the any sense, Captain America.

~*~

Bucky finds him still standing, staring at that corner. Its emptiness screams; or perhaps it’s the ringing in his ears, the thunder of his heart making him light headed.

“Stevie,” Bucky says. It’s too kind, and the hand on his shoulder is too light.

“Don’t,” Steve warns. He steps away.

“I know you feel like you have to help,” Sam says. Steve turns to find him in the door. “Think about it though. You still got that burner you gave Tony? I bet it’s in your pocket.”

He doesn’t even realize he’s taken a step forward; he doesn’t recognize the blind violence in his limbs, until Bucky’s pulling him back, hard enough to jerk his arm in its socket.

“If it were big enough – if they really needed us, enough to put us all in jeopardy, he would have called. We’re criminals Steve.”

“He’s right Steve,” Bucky says, low into his ear.

“Tony won’t risk us unless there’s no helping it.”

Steve leans back into Bucky.

“Get out.”

 Bucky takes in a harsh breath.

“Think about this-”

“Sam, get out. Both of you. I know, okay?” Steve jerks out of Bucky’s hold. They don’t move, and so Steve does, pushing Sam aside roughly. Blindly, he pushes through the first door with an inside lock he can find. It’s the bathroom. The towels are still damp from the shower he took this morning. Steve locks the door; it’s symbolic more than anything. A lock like this wouldn’t keep even Sam out, much less Bucky. He braces himself against it. He’s facing the mirror. He resists the urge to turn off the lights; it’s been a while since he’s wanted to hide from himself. Since he couldn’t look himself in the eye, face his helplessness in this new world.

Steve knows heartbreak, knows it too intimately, too viscerally. What he feels now isn’t that, not quite. The man in the mirror opposite him – Steve doesn’t know who he is, really. His color is high and his blue eyes wide. His fist clenches the door knob hard enough to bend the metal. He shakes his hand out.

Steve told Sam and Natasha once, that even when he had nothing, he’d had Bucky. A small, shocked part of him couldn’t tell them: he still had nothing. Not in this new world. The truth, he realizes now, is that those years before they encountered the Winter Soldier, Steve did have something. Without Peggy and Bucky, without the world he knew, Steve couldn’t really be _Steve_. But he could be Captain America. He knew how to serve, how to fight, how to use his body as a machine. How to bleed the vestiges of Steve from his body and become someone else.

It wouldn’t be fair, to say he was completely alone. Sam, Natasha – Wanda and Clint, and for a short time, Tony – he’s had the Avengers. But Steve’s been a stranger in a new world for a long time and Captain America was his best secret keeper.

Having Bucky back should be the thing that puts him back together. Right? Finding him, helping him, being with him – it’s everything Steve’s pinned pulling himself together on. It’s a fucker of a truth now, to find this out – that Steve needs Captain America as much as anything else.

~*~

“Steve. _Steve_.”

Bucky. Steve blinks. Bucky’s at his shoulder. Steve’s at the sink, hands braced on it. The door behind him is broken off of its hinges. Steve takes a deep, gasping breath.

“Steve.” Bucky puts his forehead on Steve’s shoulder; relief sags through him. “You with me now?”

“I’m,” Steve begins. It’s like speaking through molasses. “I’m always with you.”

Bucky worms his way between Steve and the mirror. He directs Steve face so they can look at each other, forcing his eyes off of the mirror. “Steve, tell me what’s happening.”

“What d’ya mean?” Steve licks his lips.

"You’ve been in here a while,” Bucky says. “It’s been two hours.”

“No – it’s just been...” Steve closes his eyes. Only minutes have passed.

“Stevie,” Bucky whispers. His eyes are filled with such kindness and knowing, Steve jerks away. He looks in the mirror and sees nothing. “No, no don’t.” Bucky sits up on the counter so he’s eye level with Steve. “Look at me. Just me, okay?”

“Buck,” Steve says. He can’t feel his body; he’s not sure where he is, suddenly. “What’s happening to me?”

“You’re with me. We’re in Wakanda.”

“Wakanda.” Steve tests the word out. Bucky’s hand runs down his arm. Curls around his waist. Bucky hooks his feet behind Steve’s knees to pull him closer.

“Yes. It’s 2016 and you’re with me,” Bucky says.

“I’m with you.” Steve says it. He feels its echo too. The taste of loving Bucky cracks through the numbness, then rushes, until he’s flooded. With Bucky and the sense memories of them together. But with it all. “I’m with you.” His voice cracks. His hands grip Bucky hard enough to bruise. “And you’re with me.”

“Always,” Bucky whispers into Steve’s hair. “Until the end of the line, right?”

Steve sags, suddenly; Bucky barely keeps him up.

~*~

In bed, Steve can’t look at Bucky. Only his hand pressed to Bucky’s chest next to him keeps him breathing, as he reads the rhythm of Bucky’s. Steve inhales when Bucky does.

~*~

Steve opens his eyes when Bucky begins to call his name again. Bucky’s face is creased with fear.

“Where are you? Where are you going?”

“What do you mean?” Steve’s voice is hoarse.

“You keep leaving. Stevie you’re scaring me.”

“Don’t-” Steve reaches up to touch Bucky’s face and his arm is like lead. “Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

“I need – I should get Sam. Dr. Giavalvo.”

It’s funny. Steve hasn’t heard Bucky’s voice like this since they were kids. Vague memories – being sick, fever so high everything blurred and bent strangely, and Bucky’s cool hand on his forehead, voice rich with worry.

Steve doesn’t want anyone. He wants emptiness again. Presence hurts. He just nods though.

“Don’t leave,” Bucky says. Steve doesn’t think he means the bed, exactly. Still, as soon as Bucky’s gone, Steve does. Slips into the bathroom attached to the second bedroom. There’s a man in the mirror whose face Steve can’t read.

~*~

“Steve.” Sam’s voice is so far away. “Hey buddy, you with me?”

Steve forces his eyes to focus. He’s on the floor. Everything glitters and stings.

“Steve, I need you to say something. You with me?”

“What-” Sam’s hand on his chest keeps him from moving when he tries to stand. He realizes it’s not the room that’s glittering. His head and hand throb. There’s glass everywhere. He’s bleeding. Sam is on the floor with him. “Sam.” It takes almost more than Steve has in him then, to speak.

“Steve I need you to sit still. Your hand is bleeding. Can I take care of that?” Sam’s voice is even. It takes the edge off of a rising panic.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Bucky. Where’s-”

“Right here buddy,” Bucky says. Sam’s body is crowding him out of the way, but he’s crouched down, just out of reach, to Steve’s left by the toilet. Steve closes his eyes.

“Steve, can you tell me where you are?” Sam removes a piece of glass from Steve’s hand. He’s working fast; it’s not gentle, but they both know Steve’s body will heal around shards of glass. Waiting for his body to reject and push them out is never fun.

“Wakanda.” Everything is bright and sharp now. Shame almost chokes him. “2016.” He twitches. “I know where I am.” The last few hours are a blur; he’s tired, achingly exhausted deep in his bones. “I punched the mirror. I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay bud-” Sam says.

“Steve, you know what happened? Before?” Bucky asks. Sam shoots him a look and shakes his head.

“Um,” Steve casts his mind back. Explosions on the television.

“Steve, don’t worry about it right now, okay?” Sam says.  “ Let’s get you patched up and off the floor.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says. Steve smiles to let him know it’s okay. Bucky hands Sam a roll of gauze. Once his hand is wrapped, Sam helps Steve off the floor. Glass rains off of his clothes. Still, some remain, woven into the fabric. Steve steps over the threshold of the bathroom. Glass shards are embedded in his shirt and pants. “Gotta get some clothes,” he says. He sways and Sam puts a hand on his back.

“We can help with that,” Sam says. Steve is deeply ashamed. To be the recipient of that care, to be so vulnerable. Bucky moves past them and into their room. _Their_ room. Steve holds onto that thought. Onto the _themness_. On how he’s Bucky’s, how Bucky is his.

Bucky returns with clothes. Steve lets them manipulate his body, getting him out of his clothes carefully so the glass in the fabric doesn’t cut him. He’s so tired; he could sleep for weeks. Blessedly, Sam doesn’t argue when Steve suggests it. He doesn’t press Steve for explanations. He helps Bucky get Steve to their room.

“I’m here, okay?” Sam says. “I want you to try to remember that. I’m _here_ for you.”

Steve nods and closes his eyes. He’s too tired to try to break apart the emphasis in Sam’s tone.

Bucky and Sam have a murmured conversation by the door. Steve curls around Bucky’s pillow. The lights are off and the sun is setting. They never even got to breakfast. Bucky lies on the bed behind him.

“You should eat,” Steve says, and somehow makes Bucky laugh. “You must be hungry.”

“I’ll live,” Bucky says. He puts his arm around Steve’s waist. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. Bucky’s body is warm around him. Sleep whispers. Exhaustion pulls on his bones and muscles. “Tighter.”

So Bucky does. “I love you Stevie. Don’t ever forget.”

“I won’t,” Steve says. He doesn’t remember a lot, but he does remember the pull between them; how Bucky was his tether, always pulling him back. “Love you too.”


	20. Chapter 20

Steve wakes with a full body jerk and a gasp. Phantom pain echoes in his hand.

“Steve?” Bucky wakes next to him. Steve takes the dressing off of his hand – it’s healed.

“Go back to sleep Buck,” Steve says. His voice reflects the hollowness of his body.

“Steve,” Bucky says. “Look at me.”

Steve does. He should feel ashamed. Or perhaps frightened. But he feels nothing, which is worse.      

“I’m fine,” he says. It’s a reflex he knows well.

Bucky sighs. He pushes Steve back so he’s lying down. Kisses him; the heat of his mouth, the wet press of his tongue, five bright points of contact between Bucky’s fingers and Steve’s chest – they’re all he feels. The emptiness inside is reminiscent of the loneliness Steve has carried with him for years.

Bucky erases that though. The wonderful silence Bucky has brought him to these past weeks tastes different. It’s a peace, a gift. Steve puts a hand on the back of Bucky’s head and opens his mouth; deepens the kiss. Gasps and arches against Bucky’s body as a deep, desperate need lances through him.

“Steve,” Bucky says, pulling away, “what-”

“Kiss me Bucky,” Steve says. “I need you to...I need – please.” He doesn’t have the words, because he has no name for this need. Steve trusts that Bucky knows anyway.

“You sure?” Bucky says. “I don’t – we should talk.”

“ _Please_.” Steve puts his fingers in Bucky’s hair; looks into his eyes. “I know it’s just for a little bit. I know it doesn’t last.” _Nothing does_. “But you make it better. When you – you make it so quiet. And it’s so good.”

Bucky hesitates. Bites his lip.

“Bucky, you know how it is. I know you do.” The times Bucky’s come back from a session and sought refuge in Steve’s body. In his too-willing heart.

“Steve,” Bucky whispers. He kisses Steve’s cheekbones. Dislodges Steve’s hands. Stretches them up, crossing his wrists against the pillow. Steve lies still, watchful. “Don’t move. I won’t make you stay like this. You’ll do it because I’ve told you to, alright?”

Steve nods. He sinks into his body. Bucky undresses him, but only so much as he can. He pushes Steve’s shirt up to his armpits but makes no move to get it the rest of the way off. He pulls Steve’s pants off. Brushes light, teasing kisses to his hipbones. His navel and ribs and pecs. Bucky looks Steve in the eyes and the blue in them is almost swallowed by black. Bucky moves in to kiss Steve, but when Steve turns his head toward his lips, Bucky _tsks_ and shakes his head.

“Don’t move, remember?” Steve whimpers before he can stop it. Bucky bites his chin lightly, and then his neck. Touches the inside of Steve’s right wrist, which is turned up, his left hand crossed under it.

"I’ll be good.” Steve hardly knows what he’s saying. He doesn’t understand what they’re playing at, but it’s been here all along, the both of them stumbling around the edges of it. It’s there, but it’s never been so explicit.

Bucky smiles, and kisses Steve lightly but pulls away too soon. Steve understands then: kisses are his reward. Bucky sits back and undresses. Steve tracks him with his eyes, traces each line of his beautiful body and tries to commit it all to memory. One day, if he can, if he’s well enough, he wants to draw this. The two of them together like this.

Steve knows now. He understands. He’s not well. They’ve all been asking a tremendous amount of Bucky, and every step of the way, Bucky has been willing. Has suffered for the promise and hope of wellness. And Steve’s denied it every step of the way – has denied for years – that he too needs something.

It’s unavoidable, this truth. Steve gasps. He wants to tell Bucky he understands now. Bucky touches him, every part of his body he’s exposed. Light. Not a tease, but learning and knowing. Memorizing him. Bucky’s eyes are wet when they meet Steve’s. Bucky has loved Steve for years and years. Steve can’t help but wish he’d known.

“I was so scared Steve.” Bucky closes his eyes. “So many times in my life – I’ve been out of my mind with it more than once.” Bucky crawls onto Steve, straddles him with his knees tight around Steve’s ribs. “Azzano. When Zola had me. I’d wake up from cryo, scared before I even knew I was awake.” Steve winces. A tear tracks down his temple. Bucky’s voice is slipping, Brooklyn cadence shaping his speech. “When I recognized you on the bridge.” Bucky puts both hands on Steve’s chest and rocks against him. Steve’s hard; impossibly, despite how agonizing Bucky’s words are. He needs to promise he’ll do anything they ask of him. “Nothing’s ever scared me like this. I’ve never come close to losing you.”

Steve makes a noise, the only protest he has when he can’t move.

“Steve, we really thought we’d lost you.” Bucky touches Steve’s temple and Steve understands. He doesn’t mean he was afraid for Steve’s life. But for his mind. “How many times have you lost me Stevie?”

Steve doesn’t want to count them. He closes his eyes.

“I love you, okay?” Bucky puts his thumb on Steve’s lips. “We can’t lose each other again. We can’t ever lose each other again, okay?”

Steve blinks. He blinks and then breaks the rules. “Can I touch you?”

Bucky’s flushed and trembling. They both are. “Please.”

Steve uncrosses his hands and takes Bucky by his hips. Moves him so that he’s flush against Steve’s dick. Gets a hand around Bucky’s neck, pulls him in for a kiss. A hard one, biting and rough. When he puts a hand on Bucky’s chest, he reads the cadence of his heart pounding.

“Steve, tell me what you want. Tell me how you want it.”

“I don’t wanna know anything but you. Want you to fill me up so I can’t think of anything but you.”

Bucky stills and looks into Steve’s eyes. “Okay,” he whispers.

 

~*~

Steve loses time, but this time it’s okay. Because he doesn’t lose himself. Bucky has him. Bucky takes him there. His voice, in Steve’s ear, tethers Steve. He doesn’t know how long they’re there, suspended with each other. Just that Bucky’s got him; Bucky rocks into him, slow and steady, over and over. Steve’s hands are laced behind Bucky’s neck. They’re close, Steve folding his body to cradle Bucky, to keep him right there. Bucky rocks into him like water, waves of pleasure warm and steady. Steve lets go. When he comes, it’s like the tide. It builds and builds and suddenly, it’s right there.

Bucky doesn’t let him go. He stays inside Steve. He’s whispering still. Steve can’t attend to the words. He just is. Everything is quiet. Everything is Bucky, right there with him.

~*~

Steve comes to slowly. Everything is bright. 

“Here,” Bucky hands him a glass of orange juice.

“Buck,” Steve gasps. He sits up. Bucky puts the glass to his lips.

“I’m right here,” Bucky promises. He encourages Steve to drink the whole glass. “Lay down.”

Steve is sore and exhausted and terrified Bucky will leave again.

“I won’t,” Bucky says.

“I said that out loud, didn’t I?” Steve mumbles.

“I’m right here Stevie.” Bucky is wiping come off of Steve’s stomach with a corner of the sheet. But he stays right there, warm and alive, plastered to Steve’s side. “Tell me what you need.”

Steve closes his eyes. “Stay with me. Can we sleep now?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. His eyes are soft. Steve kisses him. He rolls over and wraps an arm around Bucky.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I"m going to be THAT person: I am excited to see that people have enjoyed this fic! If you have and want to share on tumblr, the masterpost is [here>](http://judearaya.tumblr.com/post/164518701072/judearaya-mirrors-in-the-smoke-by-judearaya-with). I'm relatively new to this fandom and I love connecting with people, so feel free to friend me or drop me a note any time!!

Steve flattens his hands against the damask fabric of the chair. Across from him, Sam sits on the kitchen chair he dragged in for this conversation. Bucky is silent. He doesn’t bother to mirror Steve’s faked ease. He’s wound tight, legs crossed, hands curled around the armrests. Steve lets himself trace the weave, the overblown white embroidered circles and their complex patterns. He keeps his feet flat on the floor. He’s too tall for these chairs; he has to resist the urge to slump. Steve deliberately keeps his muscles relaxed but natural. Sam sees him. _Really_ sees him now; and Steve’s seen the results of that in other people. Sam will read into almost every gesture.

Being okay right now would be ideal, only now they know he’s not. Steve doesn’t know how else to behave, or what else to do, other than to hope that willing it to be so will make it be so.

“Steve,” Sam starts. He’s quiet. The room is draped in stillness, in worry.

“Do we have to-”

“-yes,” Bucky says. His eyes are direct and so are his words and tone. There’s no arguing with that tone. Steve’s heard every variation of it in the time they’ve known one another.

 

“Yesterday...” Sam starts and then clears his throat. “Man, that was scary. That was really...can you try to tell us what happened?”

“We _know_ what happened,” Bucky says. Steve wants to put his hand on Bucky’s arm, to stem the aggressive edges sharpening his voice and posture.  

“I...I don’t know how to-” Steve clears his throat. “I got upset. Well, you saw. I wanted – I needed to help. But it wasn’t there.”

“Your shield,” Sam guesses.

“Any of it,” Steve says. He’s hollow and it’s in his voice. It all feels so meaningless. “The shield. The uniform. Me.”

“Steve, have you ever heard of disassociation?” Sam asks

Steve squints. “Isn’t that....you said that Bucky was doing that. When they brought him back.”

Bucky jerks. He’s been biting his thumb nail. “What?”

“I think that’s what happened to you,” Sam says. Steve’s heard him use this tone, steady and firm, with the vets at the V.A. many times.

Steve digs his fingernails into the fabric of the chair. When he rubs his palms against the arms, the texture is rough. He focuses on that, on his presence in his body through that sensation. Through the window, a high, sharp bird call rends the stillness of the air.

“Has it happened before?” Sam asks. Fear has erased the laugh lines around his eyes; even the seriousness with which Sam approaches danger or missions is gone. What Steve sees is the most genuine worry and concern; the most unmasked Sam has been since Steve first saw a picture of Riley and asked Sam about it.

“Steve?” Bucky leans forward.

Steve knows it has. He has and he knows, god they’ll be so mad that he’s been hiding it for so long. Curled deep in his chest is that fear, a kind of self-loathing that begs him not to betray his secrets and weaknesses. But he’s so tired.

“It’s been happening ever since the ice,” he admits.

“Wait _what_?”

“Bucky-” Steve looks away.

“Hold on a second.” Sam says. “Steve can you describe it, for me? What you’re talking about? What happened yesterday?”

“It’s...” Steve closes his eyes and concentrates. “It’s going away. I go away.”

“Where?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t know. Just...nothing. It’s like nothing. Sometimes everything is too much. I don’t do it on purpose though.” Steve wants to stress this and he’s not even sure why. As soon as it’s out he realizes it might sound worse; the lack of control over his own functioning isn’t an indicator of wellness.

“Everything?” Bucky asks. His brows are drawn tight. He darts a look to Sam.

Steve looks at them helplessly. Bucky stands; comes behind him and lays his hand on Steve’s shoulders, rests his chin on Steve’s head.

“Stevie, why didn’t you say anything?” Bucky whispers.

“I didn’t want – you have so much. We need to focus on that. I needed that. More than anything, I thought I needed you to be okay.” Steve closes his eyes and puts a hand on Bucky’s. “I didn’t know it would be...that we’d end up like this.”

“Like what?”

“Together.” Steve watches Sam’s face, but it doesn’t change. There’s no surprise or recrimination.

“I guess I thought I could power through. I’d be okay. That once you were better-”

“Steve, man, you’ve been...” Sam says. “I...I’m sorry. I _knew_ you weren’t alright. I had no idea it was _this_ bad though.” He scrubs a hand over his face.

“Steve.” Bucky turns so his cheek is on top of Steve’s head. “You know that me being well and you being okay aren’t mutually exclusive right?”

“I...”

“From the moment I escaped Hydra I started working on this. I started fighting. Honestly, I had no idea what I was doing. But I was...it was for _me_.”

Steve turns this over. He’s known this. Bucky’s talked about it.

“Steve, I gotta be honest,” Sam says. “You need help. Real help. This is...what’s happening, what happened – it’s dangerous.”

“Can you help him?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Steve and Sam say at the same time.

“It’s not like you and me Bucky,” Sam explains. “I’m a part of your team, but I don’t – I didn’t have the same relationship-”

“It wouldn’t be right. That’s,” Steve squints and searches for the words. “It’s too much weight for him.”

“No,” Sam says. “Steve, you’re my friend. You know – where you go, I go. We put our lives on the line for each other. You are never, you will never be too much weight.”

“I know,” Steve says. But the weight of it – the things he’s asked of Sam over the years, and Sam’s loyalty have pressed onto him. Sam’s his own man and Steve’s known that. Steve’s carried Peggy’s advice with him for years now. He honors Sam’s choices. “Our friendship should be separate.”

“Yes,” Sam says. “Are you – are you saying though,” Steve can see Sam measuring his words. “Do you want help Steve? Are you ready for it?”

Steve breathes. Bucky’s fingers are tight on his shoulder. He can smell Bucky and it calls to mind the way they smell together, the closeness of their bodies and how nothing has ever been so right. More than anything, Steve doesn’t want to lose that.

Bucky’s fingers lace with his and when Steve closes his eyes, he lets himself take true stock of the moment. Of how tired he is. It’s an old, deep exhaustion, a coldness gathering in his core. Ice, from the inside, winding its way out.

“I’ve never really left it, have I?” It’s a confession, a murmur, a thread in the air.

“Left what?” Bucky prompts, so soft. Even so, the slightest gust of air and that thread winds its way around.

“The cold.”

“Since the ice?” Sam asks.

Steve closes his eyes. “No.” They wait, patient and still, as Steve traces the thought and sees how much has really unwound. “Since that freight car.”

~*~

And so they wait. Bucky stands. His fingers grip Steve’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. Sam closes his eyes briefly and shakes his head. Steve props his chin in his hands and stares into middle distance.

“Yeah,” he says at length. His voice is shredded. “Not now, this moment. I mean, I don’t think-”

“We can come back to it,” Sam assures him. “We’ll figure this out, okay. I’ll be here. Bucky will be. If you want us. We can talk tomorrow.”

Steve nods.

“Are we done for today?” Bucky asks. He too sounds wrecked. Steve doesn’t dare look at him because he’s only just holding himself together, only just keeping himself from taking it back. From walking away and asking them to pretend none of this ever happened.

“I am,” he says. He reaches to shake Sam’s hand when they stand. Sam smiles, a half successful affair that does nothing to erase the worry lining his mouth and eyes, and instead pulls him into a hug.

~*~

“Can I-”

“Yes, please,” Steve says. He’s already in bed despite the hour. Bucky crawls in after him. The careful distance he keeps is hard to read; Steve tries to assure himself its care. “Closer.”

They tangle together. Bucky’s breath is warm and moist against the slope of Steve’s nose and cheek. They carry the quiet and the dark for a long time.

Steve doesn’t sleep so much as he drifts in and out of a hazy dozing state. Every time he opens his eyes, Bucky is there, watchful and alert.

“You can sleep,” Steve murmurs.

“I know.” Bucky runs a fingertip around the edge of Steve’s ear. Steve closes his eyes.

When the sun begins to rise, Steve concentrates on wakefulness. Wills energy into his muscles. He tenses and relaxes. “I don’t want to do it,” he whispers into Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky tenses then too. Sunrise spills pink through the window. The blue of Bucky’s eyes comes through with the light.

“I will,” Steve assures him. “I just-”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky says. “Nothing is set in stone. All we’re doing today is making a plan. I mean, if you want me there.”

“I can’t do this without you there,” Steve says.

“Don’t tell yourself that,” Bucky says. He looks into Steve’s eyes. “You can do anything you set yourself to. That’s who you are Steve. You came into this world ready to fight.”

“I got no one to fight now, though.”

“This is a different kind, I’ll give you that. But it’s a fight.”

Steve closes his eyes. It’s still early, and Bucky is warm. Steve kisses him.

“What-”

“We have time. Can you...could you come here?”

“Steve, if I were any closer I’d have to be in you,” Bucky jokes.

“I know,” Steve says, quiet and close, a breath against the bow of Bucky’s lips.

“Steve,” Bucky says. He pulls away a little. Steve sighs. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, right now.”

“I do. Bucky, I need you. I need a few minutes, not thinking about this. You make – you make everything safe.”

“Stevie. What we do – how we are, when we’re together,” Bucky says. “I’ve never...I’ve never been like that with someone. I don’t know what it means and...it’s seemed right. Like it fit, and like we both know what the other needs.”

“Yes,” Steve says, grateful. Bucky’s said it so much better than Steve could.

“But Steve, I didn’t know. That – about the disassociating thing. And I don’t know if that’s good for you. Or it’s a symptom of you not being okay.”

“It’s not the same,” Steve insists.

“I think we need to talk about it more. Before anything else happens, about what it means, what’s happening to you. I really...I need help understanding all of this. I won’t hurt you. I won’t be a part of something that might be bad for you. I want to trust you when you say it’s okay, but I can’t if I don’t know what I’m going into. When you’re...when you’re like that, with me, you’re trusting me to take care of you. I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I do trust you,” Steve says. Urgency burns into him. Bucky has to know this.

“I know you do. But Steve, it’s asking a lot of both of us, to trust this, when we don’t even know what any of it means.”

“Does that mean you don’t wanna be with me?” Steve moves away.

“No,” Bucky says. Emphatic and sure, he pulls Steve toward him. “It just means I don’t think we can be together, _like that_. Where I’m...I don’t know, in charge. Whatever it is.”

Steve worries his lip, thinking this over. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t lie – I don’t want to let it go. But I don’t ever want you to feel uncomfortable. Maybe...maybe when I find someone to talk to – or if you do, we can work it out. Figure it out.”

Bucky relaxes into the bed at this.

“Right now, though, could you kiss me? Just, be close?”

Bucky smiles at him and then does. The first is sweet; it’s nothing more than a hint of a kiss. The second is a tease. Steve slips his fingers under Bucky’s shirt and reads the shape of his ribs. Bucky sighs and frames Steve’s cheek with his palm, coaxing his mouth open a little more, sucking lightly on his lower lip.

Steve aches; not just for sex, or for pleasure. Everything hurts, even this closeness with Bucky. But he wants it, because he’s awake. Where before he kept walking, kept turning away from moments of numbness, ignoring lost time and the ghost of displacement, the times he was there but not, right now, it scares him.

Bucky is in his arms. Bucky is a dream come true right now, one Steve didn’t know he would ever want or wish for. It’s different than any other time Steve has loved him. It doesn’t matter though, Steve knows, because in a myriad of ways, Steve has loved Bucky as long as he can remember. He’s unwilling to lose that.

~*~

They walk to breakfast hand in hand. Steve’s heart pounds so loudly he’s sure Bucky can hear it; hear the intricacies of his body, the whish and swoosh and thump. As a kid, they’d always feared its end, its weakness. His heart is plenty strong now and still, he’s a mess.

Wanda is already at breakfast, and surprisingly, so is Natasha. Steve shoots a look at Bucky and then at Nat, but both seem unbothered.

“Hey soldier,” she says. It’s Natasha as she is, easily teasing but also intimately friendly. Plenty of people don’t really see her – don’t try to read the nuances of her expression or tone. Natasha uses her beauty like a weapon; she hides behind it or exploits it. Steve understands that it is one shade of loneliness, and that she has many. He bends to kiss her cheek and her fingers tighten around the coffee mug she cradles carefully.

When he stands, her scent lingers. He’s missed her and hasn’t even realized. Wanda reaches for his hand as he passes and squeezes his fingers. It’s not a knowing touch, it’s not false comfort. It’s friendship and comfort and a need for connection. Wanda too is made of lonely edges.

Steve sits. No one asks about their entrance, fingers tangled. No one comments when Bucky settles his chair closer to Steve. Sam, still bleary eyed and clumsy with sleep, slumps into a chair and it dawns on Steve, blindingly, how they’ve all come together, lonely and grieving, solitary and maybe seeking something, but never spoken of it.

Steve’s not the only one needing something more. He hasn’t been. These last years, Steve’s wound a shroud around himself, convinced of his solitude, sure no one could ever know him.

“I need help with something,” he says, breaking the morning quiet. Nat doesn’t move. Sam’s shoulders straighten. Wanda smiles so kindly it hurts. She reaches for his hand and despite it all, despite feeling scrubbed raw and utterly naked, he takes it. “I’ll need lots of it. I don’t even know what I’m asking, to be honest. But...you have always had my back, all of you.”

“Where you go, I go,” Sam says. “I think we can all say that.”

“This is different. It’s different this time.”

“Oh well, you know. Maybe it’s time for a different kind of fight. Kicking ass gets old, from time to time.” Nat smiles in her way, full of secrets.

Despite himself, Steve laughs. Bucky tilts his head, and smiles, and so Steve does too.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge, huge, huge thanks to everyone on the Slack channel who held my hand, read snippets, encouraged me, and made me laugh throughout this process. 
> 
> Also, thank you to akaiiko, who encouraged me (pestered me to death) to join this Big Bang even though I'd never written Stucky before and hadn't written fanfiction in over a year. This was so much fun!


End file.
